My sons are growing. Soon they will take part in the rites of manhood and will be taken away from me. Away from the women and softness. I will lose them to the Hunt. They will forget the ways of women and they will grow hard and strong.
My sons are leaving me tomorrow. By the dying fire I sew their ritual garments. Into them I sew my love, my sorrow, my pride, my hopes and fears. With every stitch I sing songs of magic and protection. This to keep them safe from the bear, this from the hunter’s hand, this from other mens’ magic. I sew their past and their future. My heart runs hard.
The men are come. Wearing their robes with pride, they leave me. The next time I see them they will be men. My heart breaks and my eyes leak water. My sons.
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