Leas Not to be Trusted looked surprised. As if she had expected Absinthe to come prancing out of the shadows, a smile on her face. Eager to be fed and nourished and pampered. Abs wasn’t like other children, though, and no other children were like her. Adults had done nothing for her except for betray her, disown her, and leave her. She didn’t want to be in the company of them. Only Margarita.
It’s alright to come out.
It wasn’t. At least, not until Rita came to stand at her side. Then it was alright for her to move a few paces forwards, all the while at a snail’s speed. Testing the waters. Dipping her paw in to see if she would like it or not, or if she would get wet.
We look out and take care of each other.
Was that why Margarita hated the caverns so? Hated living with the Evergreens? Was that why her dearest and most treasured friend felt a prisoner here? It seemed Leas Not to be Trusted had a very different opinion than her Fairy Goddess.
When that didn’t seem to work, the chocolate woman switched tactics. Offering food instead. Absinthe was no stranger to the way she looked. She knew she was a horrid little thing—gaunt and starving. She knew the way her bones protruded from her sides like little white sticks, and the way her fur sparsely grew in thin clumps despite the colder seasons. This was what adults had done to her. This was the mask Absinthe wore to keep them away. To scare them. Margarita had her words to protect her, but Absinthe had her silence.
Make no mistake, Absinthe did eat. She had no interest in dying. But it was always done in a stealthy fashion, and always under the cover of night. Rarely did she let anyone see her eat. If one were to look especially close, they would see the tail of a rat missing from the cache, or an ear from their latest hunt. Barely enough to stay alive and well and little enough to notice a difference. She was a thief; a silent taker.
Still, she supposed Leas Not to be Trusted deserved some kind of response. Torturing the woman was appealing, yet not ideal. The child’s little white head cocked to the side, her left ear flicking as if to say, <i>“Food? Show me.”</b> The gift of food was a treasured one. Mothers gave their children food: milk from their breast.
And yet, slavers could give their prisoners food, it was all the same. And in time, some learned to love their chains.
Jul 31, 2018 02:14 PM — Post #9
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