A-Z (as you wish)
  • Angharad: I've always thought that things between us need not be said. There's not really been a need to tell you things; you just know. I know too. And I'm happy with that. I'm so happy to know you. I don't think you understand how happy I am to just be aware that you're aware of me. Does that make sense? And I really am content with it. I wouldn't ask for anything more, and as I've said so many times, I can wait. For whatever... No intentions. But lately there's been an ache. I said I miss you. I do. But I think I crave you too

Slavic mythology: Zosia, the Goddess of Beauty

She is a bright maiden, beloved by dawn and a dedicated priestess of water; sublimity and honour incarnate. She is a creature of war, armed with courage and metal, marching into any battle like a beautiful fury of swirling hair and an imposing visage, her succulent lips parted in a battle cry, to protect her worshippers against death and desolation of blood-shed. She hears their prayers and guards their mortal flesh, heals their wounds, for she loves all of her warriors as much as the Sun loves her. And when the clamour of battle calms itself to a murmur and she is no longer needed, she retreats to sit in the placid quieteness under the World Tree, watching the four grand rivers of the Underworld flow by, and under her seat, the River of Healing whispers to her, awaiting her command when she shall need its restoring powers again in the next battle that will surely come, for humanity will always be at war and she will always be needed. She is Zosia, the Goddess of Beauty and the Patroness of Warriors.

       Ash revved the engine of her motorbike as she pulled up to the house, it had been a long day, full of tedious errands and way too many sells to make. But she’d finish them, and now she had the evening to herself and really she should have taken the night off and gotten some rest but… there were more tempting alternatives that Ash just couldn’t resist. Once she’d cleaned herself up and pulled her hair into a braid, she made her way over to what she believed to be Zosia’s room. She knocked softly, and then shoved her shaking hands in her leather jacket pockets. It was almost comical how often women made her nervous, despite the confident air she often carried to herself, and Ash was just thankful nobody had picked up on it yet. The door opened and Ashlyn smirked as blue eyes met warm brown ones. “Can I take you away for the night?” she ventured softly. @xyzosia

how i long to feel that summer in my heart ; angharad&zosia

It wasn’t in Angaharad’s nature to dwell. She had a mentality drummed into her to don a stiff upper lip, to keep calm and carry on. Though she had her breakdowns, her screams and sobs, she recovered very quickly; kept a somber hat on, stayed a little quiet and tended to have a melancholic linger in her shadow, but generally didn’t let too much tread on her lighthearted persona. This had rendered her every day methods of carrying on obsolete. This business with her heart on the tracks that had knocked her layers through the ground. She wasn’t so normally set back, despite constantly wearing her heart on her sleeve and lacking in reservation. Without her being so passionate, she would be completely unaltered. But her passion had been rained on, and that was what had struck her hardest. Still, she did what she had to, and that was a mere 24 hours of sulking that she allowed herself before cracking on with the day. A flask of alcohol was never too far from her reach, however, though that had been the case for long before she came to New York. Granted, she was a trooper. 

To see Zosia and bask in the company she craved the most was something that had kept up as an incentive for a while. Even though technically the woman was the reason she had cried for so many hours, her sorrow felt so in vain when juxtaposed with the reader. Those anarchic butterflies still stormed riots in her belly at the very mention of Zosia, and Angharad was learning to use it as fuel and be happy to know such a woman that had such an affect on her. Just as she had before. ‘I’m just happy to know her’ –she recalled thinking before, when things were just as complicated only lacking labels. Said labels may have been and gone, but Angharad remained her patient demeanor that was content with a steady plod, alongside the heavenly other, should she wish to walk beside her.

Upon the recreated utopia up on the rooftop saw Angharad waiting, in the lesser sense, a glass on wine in one hand, the other fiddling with the dials of a new portable record player. She’d picked a few albums she was sure Zosia would appreciate - ‘Spanish Dance Troupe’ by Gorky’s, ‘Frank’ by Amy Winehouse, ‘Candylion’ by Gruff Rhys and a few Kinks 7″ singles. Music was gradually becoming a way of communication for the two, just like swapping foreign tongues in confidence, and for that Angharad felt more at home with every song mentioned. Now on the bench she occupied there were blankets galore, and an extra glass should her company wish to drink as well, and now only one thing was needed to complete the scene. So until that rather important component appeared, Angharad fiddled on and tried not to glance up at the doorway too often.