Molly_

United Kingdom

Aging at a rate which, quite frankly, is disgusting.
She/her
Will fight you if you aren't kind to yourself

Best fact about me: I befriended an Italian guy who introduced me to Gino D'Acampo. So.

Message to Readers

I love the idea of this one, and I can't wait to let it grow. Exciting!

Family Reunion

November 15, 2022


There were four thrones and four figures sat upon them and three heads were turned towards the fourth. Waiting. 

Spring manned a birch-wood helm, and thick-stemmed, deep green ivory climbed across its shoulders. At her feet lay a springy moss; at her head a smattering of fluorescent, sweet-scented blossoms, all pinks and blues and yellows. Where the others were stiff in their thrones, as though they had not sat in them for months, she reclined lazily, the throne almost moulded to her figure. 
She was light as expensive silks twirling in the breeze; desirable as the body from which the silks had fled. Her hair was a burned auburn, her eyes purple, and against her rose skin was a gown of the purest white, clinging to her like a newborn lamb to mother Mary. 
She smiled at her brothers and sister. Though her birth name was Nyttløfte, the New Vow, they called her Nikola.


“I have missed you guys,” she sang as birdsong. “and being around the normies, too. And my name, oh, have I missed the name they call me.”

“We each take our turns. You’ll be back walking amongst them soon, sister,” whispered something dead and cold. 

A ripple behind the purple lagoon. “Yeah, Isaac. I know.”

Isaac was calm, level headed. Some would even say wise. He dwarfed his pew, its grey granite stark against the irrepressible foliage, colours he rarely saw in his reign. Where Spring was light, he was dark; where Spring was playful, he was stoic. Time’s children were attractive, though, and Winter was no exception. He was tall, terrifying, and classically misunderstood. Isaac (Iskråke, the Ice Raven) forced those beneath his rule to rise and harden; he bred determination and grit, a desperation not only to stay alive but to live and thrive in his conditions. A will to enjoy the darkest of times. Snowmen and snowball fights and sledging were all Winter’s doing, after all.

Although they blinked into existence simultaneously, Isaac was the eldest of the seasons; he bore the unwanted cross of barren days and long nights, and his siblings were forever thankful.
Where they were loved, he was cast aside. Alone.
Another voice joined, melting the tension like ice cream on a hot day:

“Hang on, what about your little brother? You haven’t seen me either!” 

Summer was proud and young in his millennia. The perfect Greek archetype; his skin the colour of bronzed sand and his eyes as endless as the horizon. Across his cheeks and nose freckles fell in constellations, and when he worse no gleaming smile to light their way, the world followed him into darkness. But sometimes he would brood, and then he would break, and his storms would be the most powerful, most destructive of them all. Afterwards, he would weep.
He was …naive. 
Stylish, round sunglasses were perched on his nose; a white tee peeked through his open shirt, falling lazily over the hem of matching shorts. He walked barefoot. 
Marcus or Mørksol, he was true to his origin. The Dark Sun. 


 A perfect dichotomy of floating grace and startling speed, Nikola leapt from her seat, not to embrace her brother, but to pin his head between the crook of her elbow. Marcus fought for breath. Then, in a complicated manoeuvre, he flipped his sister over his shoulder and tackled her onto the dirt.  Scuffling, the two were allowed to fight it out for half a minute or so in the hourglass silence. Then, in a deft and divisive movement of his own, Isaac strode from his own pew, and, with each hand, pulled his siblings apart as easily as cleaving ice with a pickaxe, holding their wriggling forms at arm’s length from the other with a bored expression of one far too used to this particular rivalry.

Nikola glared at Marcus. Marcus glared back. 

“I cannot-” Nikola strained, “-wait-” she lunged against Isaac’s vice grip, “-to destroy you!”

Marcus' eyes twinkled, "I knew you'd missed me."

Behind them, someone coughed. 
The cough tumbled forwards as though thrown into words by its own momentum. 
“Should we start? Even forever can’t last forever, can it?” 

Isobel. Quiet, affable, small autumn. She was the aroma of cinnamon soaked into old wood; she was the stinging tears slipping down your cheeks as fireworks tore apart the darkness. Muddied paths, crunching leaves, perfect apples. Autumn was forgotten by most, but she was strong in her subtle nature. She was often misjudged and she knew it. Her brown hair was short, layered prettily like falling leaves, and owl-like glasses framed her hazel eyes; tortoiseshell and thicker than cream oozing along the crust of a pumpkin pie. They called her Iskaldelv. The river which begins to freeze long before Winter’s touch. 

Nikola never had to contend against Isobel, as Marcus never had to battle Isaac, and so she never understood how her hushed, reserved sister could best Marcus’ arrogance or Isaac’s silent strength. 

Heavy chests rose and fell, but still, no one spoke. 
Isaac leant forward, propping his elbows on his knees, pressing the pads of his fingertips together. The others, drawn by such a simple action, waited. 

“Well,” he rumbled, after a while, “I suppose Isobel is right. We should begin.” 

A rare smile fractured his face. A crack in the ice. 

“Forever can’t stand around and wait for us, can it?”

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