Lena
It’d been a long time since she’d cried.
She’d known hardships – who hadn’t – but the weight of everything flickered and tore as she nestled her way into the gardens. A brush of a tear here and there, as she fed animals and gathered water, as she strived desperately to convey every single necessity, to force away every damned notion beginning to build over her shoulders.
But they always came back; between rows of Celestine lights or edges of obsidian crows nearby. She waved them off and they scattered for a while, void incantations bleeding away for another opportunity. Sohalia disappearing. Dahlia rising to power, and no one seeming to care. Unanswered letters and eerie broadcasts. And then their failure in the swamps, where the infection spread into the sea.
She picked at the weeds and forced away all the edges until she was nothing more than a brink, a canyon, a rivulet; tossing away the ends and saving them for the beasts in her threshold. She grabbed at the herbs needed for healing, collecting their flowers and stems in her lap, and for no other reason, save the lot of them, subsequently burst into tears.
Mittens ghosted over, a hovering thing on her shoulder. “I’m okay,” she whispered, either to herself or the companion, as if that would heal and stitch things back together.
She’d known hardships – who hadn’t – but the weight of everything flickered and tore as she nestled her way into the gardens. A brush of a tear here and there, as she fed animals and gathered water, as she strived desperately to convey every single necessity, to force away every damned notion beginning to build over her shoulders.
But they always came back; between rows of Celestine lights or edges of obsidian crows nearby. She waved them off and they scattered for a while, void incantations bleeding away for another opportunity. Sohalia disappearing. Dahlia rising to power, and no one seeming to care. Unanswered letters and eerie broadcasts. And then their failure in the swamps, where the infection spread into the sea.
She picked at the weeds and forced away all the edges until she was nothing more than a brink, a canyon, a rivulet; tossing away the ends and saving them for the beasts in her threshold. She grabbed at the herbs needed for healing, collecting their flowers and stems in her lap, and for no other reason, save the lot of them, subsequently burst into tears.
Mittens ghosted over, a hovering thing on her shoulder. “I’m okay,” she whispered, either to herself or the companion, as if that would heal and stitch things back together.
little more like coming home
