our last request

With the final rose clutched to her chest, Nephele flies from the village as swiftly as her wings can carry her. Knowing the prick of the rose's thorns had not cured her sister entirely is a grief that hangs on her shoulders, but the fact that it had helped even temporarily, that she had her sister back for those precious moments, is a glowing spot of hope in her currently bleak worldview. The faster she can plant this last rose, the faster the roses will be grouped together in greater number, and she prays her sister will be healed just as swiftly.

There is no need for her to go far. Part of her still hatefully blames the Outlanders for their pervasive sickness. No matter how kind or intriguing her interactions had been with them recently, she would always choose to prioritize her home over theirs.

The sound of riversong reaches her ears, slowing the hum of her wings as she hovers, letting the ominous humming resonate in her breast and calm her frantic breaths. It is as good a spot as any, and so she lowers herself down to the shore, walking past the line of the beach and into the treeline where the rose will not be washed away. Her scapula-spade is dulled but still efficient at chipping away the earth beneath the snow, and she gently places the bare roots into the little hole she has dug. Please, please let this work. Bring her back to me.

The work is swifter here. Whether it's because of the loan and sand or the Greatwood sensing her desperation and conceding, she doesn't know. Nephele isn't the abjectly faithful sort, but she will be if this heals her sister. Her home. Her entire world.

Her hands are cramped and aching as she throws her bone-spade down, the roots finally fully covered. Sweat beads across her brow and her breaths huff with exertion, but there's no time for hesitation now. Standing, she shoves her tool back in her bag, and forces her tired wings to take her skyward once more. She must go now, and pray the roses remain undisturbed without her constant guardianship.