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Summary
The experiment is born at sunset, right after the last warmth of the sun trickles over the horizon’s edge and the buttery evening light bathing the laboratory retreats, leaving only the lonely chill that gilds winter nights. When he wakes, he is already well enough along to read the embroidery swirling its cursive thread before his eyes:
Gold, he mouths, bleary-eyed and young.
“It’s Rhinedottir,” replies the woman standing before him, and he shivers in the cold—but then the edges of her eyes relax. In the muddled illumination of evening, they almost look soft. “But,” she continues, “I suppose you should call me ‘mother.’”
Series
- Part 30 of Zine Fics