Meadow

she pushed him harshly.

motherhood had not come easily, and he stared at her with sharpened resolve. a familiar unkindness hung at the corners of her weary lips and pinched the corners of her eyes.

she had aged in the time since he spilled out onto the sands. she had aged. once, she was so wondrously hewn from moonless skies. a vibrancy was woven into the very fabric of her being. he looked at her as one seeks the stars: with wonder, with awe, with an appreciation for the endless expanse of the heavens. and amunet, she found him too much like fire. harangued by this new responsibility, obligation: a charge, she'd no way of knowing how to nurture. she was loathed to have him, and the yearling found that in the frigid response, askance over affection.

she pushed him, only to retreat from the meadow. to flee her son, and to flee the stone that had hung around her neck. sahure frowned, thoughtfully regarding this change in routine. he understood the heft of it, the decisiveness in her refusal of him. she completed the duration of this exploitation of her individuality, of her body, of her freedom. the yearling was not sullen seeing her depart, and in many ways, relieved by it.

freedom; not only abound to her but also laid before him.

the boy whickered a cheeky farewell before pointed his attention to the meadow set before him.