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Entry Brigit's Flame
Prompt: Undercover Mother
Genre; Science Fantasy?
Word Count: 532




Undercover of the deep white loss, I await the exile's return

I remember near the end, the fierce pride, a mouse with fresh seeds for her family,blindly laughing hunger of mousekins. Like all newborns, they tickled in their movements around the edge of infinity.

Later I could feel the stillness. For some reason it hurt more, I am not sure why. After the rolling thunders of pain were released by those trying to be me there was much stillness. Then there was a wrongness in the air, but there had been so many conflagrations that it hung. Man went away except for some buried pockets. Almost everyone and thing went away as the winter fell in metres   of snow but still stayed grey and dead in the sky at the same time.

Undercover of the deep white loss, I await the exile's return.

Not all is gone. There are survivors that try to make it through the snow and the dark. Plants that struggle without air and without sun. Animals with new, weak forms that try to find food. I try to help as best I can, even when it means   leading the animals to each other for food, or to the struggling plants. Man I leave to his own devices. This was his doing. I do not know if he was jealous of Me or full of anger at something else, but this heavy unending Winter is not my doing but his. I am not cruel but sometimes I can be harsh.

And Raven comes by and tries to help, as do some of the other gods from my time and before and after. From the stillness he carries within himself, I think if Raven could cry that he would create a river for the survivors. Perhaps I should suggest it to someone. If there ever is someone. I am not even sure Raven is real, or any of the other visitors.

Undercover of the deep white loss, I await the exile's return.

Sometimes the thing that sends me into depressions darker than the sky is the thought that I am not real. I have seen some of the mutations that come and go,felt their trembling newness. And I wonder; what if I have been created by the terrible rain they brought on everything. What if I am one with the terrible storms that scar my body over and over.

Undercover of the deep white loss, I await the exile's return.

In the end though, it does not matter. I keep my pockets of hope hidden as best I can. A plant seed here. A mole wandering without realising that its dark world has spread. A small band of humans here, no longer wanting to control the world but only to survive.

Am I only an element in someone else's dream? Then perhaps someday they will wake up and help my children. If I am real? Perhaps, and this is my prayer, the exile will return. And He will find a way to filter his light through the dark clouds and warm the morning at long last. And until then, undercover of the deep white loss, I await the exile's return.

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