Loathe the way they light candles in Rome
But love the sweet air of the votives
But love the sweet air of the votives
It's been a little less than a month, sure, but who's counting? It's not as though Koa said he wouldn't be back sooner - and it's not as though he's here today specifically to find Soh. But as much as Koa may decry the Greatwood, there's something about the boughs and branches, the shaded paths and sentient vines, that keeps him coming back; he's trapped by wild eddies and sinking soil, by roots and birdsong and sharp, streaking sun.
Or perhaps it's not the Greatwood at all. Perhaps he's trapped by her.
He finds Sohalia exactly where he left her: at a table, staring at a pot of dirt. But now the soil isn't empty, its contents mere potential hidden beneath the loam. The little sprouts that pepper the surface are a far cry from anything resembling flowers, but they're young and green as softest springtime, terribly brave and foolhardy to dare grow in such a hopeless world. Koa regards them with a crooked smile, looking over Sohalia's shoulder: he's come up from behind her, not too close, but enough to catch a whiff of her perfume, to see the freckles usually hidden beneath her golden hair.
"Looks like our child's growing nicely." Koa's voice is quietly teasing, the smile audible in his tone. He's dressed for the warming weather in a green linen shirt and faded jeans, his hair brushed back and his facial hair trimmed. Having bridged the space left between them, Koa now settles on the bench beside Soh, left leg thrown over as he sits astride. Expression soft and curious, he reaches for her notebook. "What's this?" the young man questions warmly, waiting for permission before bringing the artwork close to inspect.
Or perhaps it's not the Greatwood at all. Perhaps he's trapped by her.
He finds Sohalia exactly where he left her: at a table, staring at a pot of dirt. But now the soil isn't empty, its contents mere potential hidden beneath the loam. The little sprouts that pepper the surface are a far cry from anything resembling flowers, but they're young and green as softest springtime, terribly brave and foolhardy to dare grow in such a hopeless world. Koa regards them with a crooked smile, looking over Sohalia's shoulder: he's come up from behind her, not too close, but enough to catch a whiff of her perfume, to see the freckles usually hidden beneath her golden hair.
"Looks like our child's growing nicely." Koa's voice is quietly teasing, the smile audible in his tone. He's dressed for the warming weather in a green linen shirt and faded jeans, his hair brushed back and his facial hair trimmed. Having bridged the space left between them, Koa now settles on the bench beside Soh, left leg thrown over as he sits astride. Expression soft and curious, he reaches for her notebook. "What's this?" the young man questions warmly, waiting for permission before bringing the artwork close to inspect.
Koa Carpenter
Hurt and grieve but don't suffer alone
Engage with the pain as a motive
Engage with the pain as a motive
