Most things are pretty when they flower. Oh, so true, and what a brilliant metaphor for life. Lyra blinks at Kaisel once, twice, and then returns to spreading her little packets of dirt around the base of the tree. It's fascinating, she thinks, to see how they differ. A bit of sand from Torchline draws a current of gold; the loamy soil from Halo is a darker brown than what is naturally present in the Greatwood. And so on and so forth, until she's emptied all of her packets, spreading the taste of far-off lands for the Mathair to enjoy.
"I'm sure these will sprout just fine," Lyra agrees, standing and dusting off her hands on her pants, tucking away the little pouches so that she doesn't inadvertently litter. "As you say, Mathair will watch over them. And with the weather we've been having, it isn't like they won't get watered." And screamed to death, if the rain has anything to say about it, but fortunately, plants can't hear. (Or can they?)
"I'm sure these will sprout just fine," Lyra agrees, standing and dusting off her hands on her pants, tucking away the little pouches so that she doesn't inadvertently litter. "As you say, Mathair will watch over them. And with the weather we've been having, it isn't like they won't get watered." And screamed to death, if the rain has anything to say about it, but fortunately, plants can't hear. (Or can they?)
lyra
Never take advice from someone who's falling apart
