ye of the past must die

Maea

And I hope that you don't suffer
But take the pain

It was warm in the sun. Not the Climb kind of warm, but balmy enough that two ancients could go without a cloak and still feel decently comfortable. Maea had spread hers over a mossy rock and sat gazing at a brook that wound its way across the path they had been following. The spring flood was soaking the ground and her boots were wet, set aside to dry after a careless tumble into the water. Light flooded the small glade, and in response to its loving warmth all kinds of things had sprouted from winter's dormancy, to reach for the sun with all their might. Fiddle-head ferns coiled along the base of the rock and a patch of star-flowers bloomed just below her bare foot, nearly obscured by winter-green vines that crept across every available surface, winding up tree trunks and lending an illusion of verdant abundance to a forest still in the throws of awakening. 

Sucking on the scraped knuckles she had earned from shoving her hands into a rose bush - they had actually found one, believe it or not, only to discover it a completely ordinary wild rose without even a hint of flowers or buds - the taste of her own blood caused her tail to twitch in irate patterns, slashing the air as if it offended her with its sweet fragrance and gentle caress. 

"We should try to hunt something for lunch," she blurted out, shattering the stillness with a suddenness that betrayed the falsehood of the picture she had painted. There was nothing peaceful or serene about Maea today; she was restless, annoyed at the lack of progress in the search for roses and more than willing to let herself be distracted.

Hope if everybody runs
You choose to stay