Freya fingered the owl totem. It was only a few
inches tall; easy to carry inside a pocket. It had been carved by her
great-great-great grandmother.
Not for the first time, did
Freya wonder how her ancestor had felt. How she had coped. How had
she gone on when she lost the voices of the Spirits and nevermore
could call on them to take form? Unlike her long deceased ancestor,
Freya was used to the silence.
“It is what it is.” She
said softly to the totem, wondering if her philosophy was inherited
from the little totem's maker.
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