Une cabane lovée dans le feuillage… Ma tanière de sorcière au fond des bois. Mon boudoir… poudres,éclats de rire et élixirs. Esprits en ébullition, chasseurs de rêves, et visiteurs en tout genre, tissez vous dans ma toile …

The Huntress’ Teachings

J’ai retrouvé quelque chose que j’avais écrit pour le Sanctuaire il y a quelques temps…

When spring returned, I had a splinter of ice in my heart : Her terrible gift.
I will turn like the fabled Ice-queen, I then think, alone and cruel.
As the ice did not melt I felt predatory for the first time under my girly skins.
And I met the next storms with steel-like cold blood.
I wondered, did she wake the monster in me ?

I meet up the first mountains and my girly legs are too weak to climb. As I sit on the dusty snow, I wonder why does she ever bother with me ?
I shiver and think, a monster could climb.

I used to be afraid of the dark months
Now I welcome the sharpness of the cold like kin.

She is smelling my blood, I am the hunted. The prize is my old girly skin ; a sacrifice.
But the prize is always only as good as the hunt.
The paths we find, the strengths we forge.

She is taking me for the long game. She is always here in my shadows, relentless imperious presence. Laughing. » You will be mine ».

Exhaustion will be extasy – of course, She is the reason we give in willingly
She is the Mistress of Sacrifice.
She has imprinted her mark on me. In my dreams, it grows.
Winter is coming.

Every time I run from it I end closer to the core.
Suspended in time, this stasis is her gift. The second before the leap, the calm in between the storms, the drawing of the bow, the gripping of the shield, the descent –
snow soflty falling is a reconciliation with one’s self. complete at least ! For a few seconds, perfection, and then I fall…

There is a shadow in the game. And it swallows me whole every time.  I wonder, will I find Her again when it no more rains ashes, or will she remain forever in her icy palace, blind to change, entombing me in her iron grasp ?

I lose my faith and myself many times until nothing is left.

And then the spring returns again as a tide over my tired shape. She’s still there, with a rueful smile. Shining. As sweet as she is bitter, nurturing and fierce, the survivor, the lonely huntress, the queen, the mother of nations.

They call the first flowers of trees spring snow, flowing the streets, fragile and wonderful.

As I face the harsh light of day, I see my dreams dangerously close. The strange fertility of winter – always melting after a while, stealing away the fog, leaving us bare and exposed, a touch away from the promises made in darkness’ safety.

No monster’s heart, but a woman’s, that always grows back no matter how many times I tear it out.

Hers I will be the day when I finally own up to my power – when I finally learn to honor and cherish both the void and the plenty, the deep and the high, the harsh truth and the useful lie, both sides of my heart, the merciless and the compassionate, the filthy and the pure, the heavy past and the scary future, the duties and possibilities, the icy cold and the melting warm – with equal boldness and courage. The pains and fears are worth it.

And, that day in mind, I steady myself for the beginning of a new chase.



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