1/9/2025, 1:48 AM
![[Image: butterfly.png]](https://i.ibb.co/8M4XGqJ/butterfly.png)
Skill: --- (3/5)
TW for nonspecific thoughts/feelings/reference to miscarriage
TW for nonspecific thoughts/feelings/reference to miscarriage
Fate had a way of working itself out.
Her mother often told her that a single beat of a butterfly's wings could change the course of time itself - it often awed her to think of how seemingly small things could grow into something as significant as two souls brought together by what felt like happenstance.
Had Sneachta not roosted in the tree Fox scratched against, she might never have brought him back with her to the roots of Avon's group - and she would not be standing opposite him now, subtly admiring the way sunlight played amongst the vivid ginger making up his fur.
Whatever had happened in their time apart, Fable was simply glad he made it back to them in one piece. She did not wish to wonder forever if he was okay, safe, warm, and fed - it was bad enough she fretted for her family she unwillingly left behind.
His question lured a coy edge to her muzzle and eyes alike as she took a single step forward, ears cupped in his direction.
Creating buffer was a difficult task in the moment as she pulled away, but she steered her mind carefully as she led him into Avon's heart. Managing the buzz of hormones and whatever else might linger between them, undiscussed, created a mixture she knew required a firm hand, but an impulsive part of her was less than enthused with the restraint of baser instincts.
She was loyal, right? Like her mother, like her father? Their love was so unyielding and authentic, a thing of beauty - but in recent weeks, she wondered if they hid their cloudy days beneath manufactured and blinding sunshine so their children would not notice or if storms simply never darkened their horizon. Neither of them were here to answer her question, so it remained unresolved, unknown. Fable would have to feel out her own path, whatever it might entail.
Fox reassured her his absence hadn't been by choice and she was pleased to hear it - perhaps more pleased than she had any right to be.
She just hoped they were safe and whole - and that, like Shiloh, maybe they would arrive here when their time in their world was done.
Fable bided her time with excruciating care before she revealed the most harrowing of the plights to besiege Avon. It was biased, of course, for her to feel that way - though Sycamore's flesh was rend by fangs, Gamma's whereabouts were unknown, and a handful of members had gone missing or left... she couldn't replace or fill the cracks in her heart left by what could have, should have been. It was not that she had set out to become a mother or that she made a conscious choice to become pregnant at the time, but once she had it, she wanted it more keenly than anything before. She would have traded most anything, most anyone to get it back, had it been possible.
But it wasn't, so she had never been forced to make the choice between everything she held dear and the single thing she wanted more than air - no matter how much she bargained with the powers that be.
Her steps slowed, first only barely, but then finally drew to a stop as Fox's side pressed to hers. In the aftermath of her miscarriage, she hadn't really opened up to anyone - not even Archon, really. His comment spoken during her darkest hour still stung and she had retreated into herself, subconsciously unable to bring the words she perhaps should have spoken to the surface. Even if he backtracked and cited his traumas, it did not take away the words he said or their burning edges.
Instead of drum up the energy to resolve it, she had settled a mask in place and tried to outwardly portray what she was supposed to be, what others expected of her - Kardia of Avon, adopted mother, wife, sister, healer, confidant for the burdens of others, and committed stewardess of the gardens she flung herself so fully into. There were so many things for her to be that she did not let herself choose "sad," regardless of how large a part of herself it truly occupied.
Fox's touch ripped the lid off the carefully locked box containing her stuffed-down grief, though perhaps its hinges had already been weakened by rust in the mounting stress that surrounded her and Avon. Tears she hadn't been prepared for collected at her waterline as he gave her the reassurance she had wanted to hear - that nothing had to happen, that it wasn't her fault. They weren't words she had been ready to hear before, but now, coming from someone else who was also medically inclined, she felt a sort of relief - though such a word was dim compared to the profound effect Fox's words had.
She had always known she probably couldn't have done anything to change what happened. In her previous life, she had been a midwife and talked mothers through such things - but once it was herself in her patients' place, it was as though she believed nothing at all in what she had learned.
Fable leaned into his stabilizing presence, her head hanging low. She listened to his comforting words even as tears freed themselves in stubborn streaks. Part of her felt a sliver of guilt for finding so much warmth and reassurance in them, but she couldn't bring herself to wish them away.
The dreamer pressed the side of her head against his ruff, drawing steadiness from his proffered brace. He was right - she did all she could, she had loved her child so fiercely. If any of those two concepts could have sustained the fickle life, she would have them now at her side. It had been beyond her choice, beyond her deign.
He asked if she had chosen a name and she immediately thought of the two she had loosely picked out, though never formally discussed. Her pregnancy had not stayed long enough for her to daydream overmuch, after all.
Croí was a simpler one, but it did not lack meaning - heart; it was a single word, but spoke of the adoration harbored for the fledging life and a lifetime of love she wished for it.
Her mother often told her that a single beat of a butterfly's wings could change the course of time itself - it often awed her to think of how seemingly small things could grow into something as significant as two souls brought together by what felt like happenstance.
Had Sneachta not roosted in the tree Fox scratched against, she might never have brought him back with her to the roots of Avon's group - and she would not be standing opposite him now, subtly admiring the way sunlight played amongst the vivid ginger making up his fur.
Whatever had happened in their time apart, Fable was simply glad he made it back to them in one piece. She did not wish to wonder forever if he was okay, safe, warm, and fed - it was bad enough she fretted for her family she unwillingly left behind.
His question lured a coy edge to her muzzle and eyes alike as she took a single step forward, ears cupped in his direction.
That depends,Fable teased, nose so close to his and her green gaze latched to his.
Are ye going t'run?She - only barely - restrained the temptation to crowd in closer, to press, but the distant reminder of Archon served to sober her, to clarify the boundary she flirted with and the reality that she might be starting something that would not go well for any of the parties involved.
Creating buffer was a difficult task in the moment as she pulled away, but she steered her mind carefully as she led him into Avon's heart. Managing the buzz of hormones and whatever else might linger between them, undiscussed, created a mixture she knew required a firm hand, but an impulsive part of her was less than enthused with the restraint of baser instincts.
She was loyal, right? Like her mother, like her father? Their love was so unyielding and authentic, a thing of beauty - but in recent weeks, she wondered if they hid their cloudy days beneath manufactured and blinding sunshine so their children would not notice or if storms simply never darkened their horizon. Neither of them were here to answer her question, so it remained unresolved, unknown. Fable would have to feel out her own path, whatever it might entail.
Fox reassured her his absence hadn't been by choice and she was pleased to hear it - perhaps more pleased than she had any right to be.
Th' fae do not always care for our wants,Fable returned, thinking of how she had been brought to this world. She missed her family dearly, but would she give all she had gained since arriving if it meant seeing them again? No, she decided - despite the heartache, the loss, and the hardships she endured, she had forged connections she did not wish to relinquish. This was not the life she had been given at the outset or one she would have even chosen blindly, but it was her life now. Each day allowed the want for "home" to soften until she no longer thought of her family's farm with so much longing.
She just hoped they were safe and whole - and that, like Shiloh, maybe they would arrive here when their time in their world was done.
Fable bided her time with excruciating care before she revealed the most harrowing of the plights to besiege Avon. It was biased, of course, for her to feel that way - though Sycamore's flesh was rend by fangs, Gamma's whereabouts were unknown, and a handful of members had gone missing or left... she couldn't replace or fill the cracks in her heart left by what could have, should have been. It was not that she had set out to become a mother or that she made a conscious choice to become pregnant at the time, but once she had it, she wanted it more keenly than anything before. She would have traded most anything, most anyone to get it back, had it been possible.
But it wasn't, so she had never been forced to make the choice between everything she held dear and the single thing she wanted more than air - no matter how much she bargained with the powers that be.
Her steps slowed, first only barely, but then finally drew to a stop as Fox's side pressed to hers. In the aftermath of her miscarriage, she hadn't really opened up to anyone - not even Archon, really. His comment spoken during her darkest hour still stung and she had retreated into herself, subconsciously unable to bring the words she perhaps should have spoken to the surface. Even if he backtracked and cited his traumas, it did not take away the words he said or their burning edges.
Instead of drum up the energy to resolve it, she had settled a mask in place and tried to outwardly portray what she was supposed to be, what others expected of her - Kardia of Avon, adopted mother, wife, sister, healer, confidant for the burdens of others, and committed stewardess of the gardens she flung herself so fully into. There were so many things for her to be that she did not let herself choose "sad," regardless of how large a part of herself it truly occupied.
Fox's touch ripped the lid off the carefully locked box containing her stuffed-down grief, though perhaps its hinges had already been weakened by rust in the mounting stress that surrounded her and Avon. Tears she hadn't been prepared for collected at her waterline as he gave her the reassurance she had wanted to hear - that nothing had to happen, that it wasn't her fault. They weren't words she had been ready to hear before, but now, coming from someone else who was also medically inclined, she felt a sort of relief - though such a word was dim compared to the profound effect Fox's words had.
She had always known she probably couldn't have done anything to change what happened. In her previous life, she had been a midwife and talked mothers through such things - but once it was herself in her patients' place, it was as though she believed nothing at all in what she had learned.
Fable leaned into his stabilizing presence, her head hanging low. She listened to his comforting words even as tears freed themselves in stubborn streaks. Part of her felt a sliver of guilt for finding so much warmth and reassurance in them, but she couldn't bring herself to wish them away.
The dreamer pressed the side of her head against his ruff, drawing steadiness from his proffered brace. He was right - she did all she could, she had loved her child so fiercely. If any of those two concepts could have sustained the fickle life, she would have them now at her side. It had been beyond her choice, beyond her deign.
I needed t'hear that,she admitted, her voice drawn quiet and damp.
I wanted them so dearly.Her words were meager, but the emotion behind them was thick and cloying.
He asked if she had chosen a name and she immediately thought of the two she had loosely picked out, though never formally discussed. Her pregnancy had not stayed long enough for her to daydream overmuch, after all.
Rauiri, for a lad,Fable revealed. 'Red King' seemed suitable if they had been born with the red hair that was rampant in her family. She didn't know how the inheritance of features worked between her human life and this one, but a part of her hoped for a redhead to add to her family's lineage.
Croí, for a lass.
Croí was a simpler one, but it did not lack meaning - heart; it was a single word, but spoke of the adoration harbored for the fledging life and a lifetime of love she wished for it.
It was still so early, I did not get t'think o' many,she added - but perhaps it had been a small blessing that she had not been given another day to grow fonder of what she was going to ultimately lose.
![[Image: Viv_FableFB.gif]](https://sig.grumpybumpers.com/host/Viv_FableFB.gif)
