by Anonymous

All fawns grow into stags.

She's proud of the way these two carry themselves. Gone is the clumsiness of youth, their soft bleating voices and downy hair. Many seasons of hardship have wept the innocence from their eyes and supplanted it with understanding that's still several years shy of true wisdom, but like their antlers did, this too will come in time.

Both are her blood. One born from her womb and the other born from her chosen sister's. Love is their milk. Knowledge, too.

It has made them strong and in a word that once embarrassed them both: beautiful.

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