creator_raven (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
creator_raven) wrote2005-10-25 10:46 pm
creator_raven) wrote2005-10-25 10:46 pm
Entry tags:
OOC: One of the stories that Raven has forgotten
Raven does not truly remember his early life. There are flashes of things, when he is not paying attention: the tilt of an eyebrow here, the way her hands looked when she was washing clothes, the color of her eyes when he left for the first time.
What he has forgotten are the everyday things. The way he would gut the fish before dinner, or how he would help her sort the vegetables. It was always his duty to clean the sleeping pallets, and help prepare the skins for stretching.
She told him stories, in the early days. They were simplistic things, suited for children, and they made him laugh. The moralistic ones were particularly silly, to his way of thinking. Even then, she kept trying, pulling out the darker stories the women told, of power and treachery and the scent of blood in cold air. Love and death, really, for all that he had existed for only five years. She needed someone to talk to.
In the daylight, it frightened her, that she would speak so to her son. He was so small, it was easy to forget what he was—that he had been something before he had been her son. Later, when they named him Raven, she was not particularly surprised. In his turn, he was not surprised that she refused to call him so. Mothers are strange creatures, after all, and he had less understanding than most sons are equipped with. Daughters, too, for all that.
Time cured him of that difficulty, for the most part. Time, and experience, and a great deal of something like pain. By the time he knew better--by the time he understood, in his way, what she had wanted from him—she was dead, and the world was dead, and he could not go back.
There are reasons Death calls to him. This is only one of them.
What he has forgotten are the everyday things. The way he would gut the fish before dinner, or how he would help her sort the vegetables. It was always his duty to clean the sleeping pallets, and help prepare the skins for stretching.
She told him stories, in the early days. They were simplistic things, suited for children, and they made him laugh. The moralistic ones were particularly silly, to his way of thinking. Even then, she kept trying, pulling out the darker stories the women told, of power and treachery and the scent of blood in cold air. Love and death, really, for all that he had existed for only five years. She needed someone to talk to.
In the daylight, it frightened her, that she would speak so to her son. He was so small, it was easy to forget what he was—that he had been something before he had been her son. Later, when they named him Raven, she was not particularly surprised. In his turn, he was not surprised that she refused to call him so. Mothers are strange creatures, after all, and he had less understanding than most sons are equipped with. Daughters, too, for all that.
Time cured him of that difficulty, for the most part. Time, and experience, and a great deal of something like pain. By the time he knew better--by the time he understood, in his way, what she had wanted from him—she was dead, and the world was dead, and he could not go back.
There are reasons Death calls to him. This is only one of them.
ot
Re: ot
And I"m on most weekends after 8, also.
Raven usually has an entrance post. if you're about, feel free to tag?
Or, you know, I'll watch for your boy. I pimped him in crackchat when you came in that one time. Faith's player particularly enjoys that series.
Re: ot
(Anonymous) 2005-11-07 03:17 am (UTC)(link)Doh!
*headdesk*