You're so cold
but you feel alive
Smother another failure, lay this to rest
Console yourself, you're better alone
Destroy yourself, see who gives a fuck
Absorb yourself, you're better alone
Destroy yourself...
Something was stirring at the old Valaire farm. Black smoke had been rising from the yard before the barn for a few days now, and though neighbors had been warned that someone was going to be there, that it was not, in fact, on fire, there was an unusual amount of traffic on the lonesome country road that passed by the steading as Maea rummaged through the remnants of her old life.
It was like looting a corpse.
Starting with the outhouses, she had sorted out all the tools and materials into piles. Things that were borrowed, things that could be traded, and things that were too broken to repair. All the animals were gone, and most of the feed had turned after a year and more of neglect, but there were plenty of other things that could be salvaged. Tools, raw materials. Hammers and chisels, spits, picks, pitchforks and wheelbarrows. Knives for butchering and hunting, shears, tongs. Wood, nails, wool both raw and combed, some even spun into thread, ready to ship off to market. On the loft amidst piles of hay she found a chest tucked away in a corner, full to the brim with old books. Miraculously they seemed mostly unharmed, the solid oak of the lid having prevented any moisture from leaking through. Those she set aside, meaning to bring them to the Aetheneum and let the guild go through them, see what they were about.
Maea tried not to think too much as she worked. It was too painful. Even though these were simply tools of the trade, it was still objects she had seen handled by her family. Her grandfather climbing the rickety old ladder. A huge woven basket they had used to carry apples from the orchard to the brewery, dragged on a tiny cart that now stood out on the yard with a broken wheel. She remembered laughing as she helped Lienna drag it, while Noah and the children had pushed on from behind. The youngest, Leon, had only barely been able to keep up, his small hand holding on to the rim more for support than to aid the work.
Burning the things that could not be saved was even harder. Standing with a bucket of water in one hand and a two pronged hay fork in the other, she watched the flames consume memories with a very distant look on her face. Looking for all the world as though she might throw herself onto the pyre next, rather than sacrifice another piece of the farm.
Console yourself, you're better alone
Destroy yourself, see who gives a fuck
Absorb yourself, you're better alone
Destroy yourself...
Something was stirring at the old Valaire farm. Black smoke had been rising from the yard before the barn for a few days now, and though neighbors had been warned that someone was going to be there, that it was not, in fact, on fire, there was an unusual amount of traffic on the lonesome country road that passed by the steading as Maea rummaged through the remnants of her old life.
It was like looting a corpse.
Starting with the outhouses, she had sorted out all the tools and materials into piles. Things that were borrowed, things that could be traded, and things that were too broken to repair. All the animals were gone, and most of the feed had turned after a year and more of neglect, but there were plenty of other things that could be salvaged. Tools, raw materials. Hammers and chisels, spits, picks, pitchforks and wheelbarrows. Knives for butchering and hunting, shears, tongs. Wood, nails, wool both raw and combed, some even spun into thread, ready to ship off to market. On the loft amidst piles of hay she found a chest tucked away in a corner, full to the brim with old books. Miraculously they seemed mostly unharmed, the solid oak of the lid having prevented any moisture from leaking through. Those she set aside, meaning to bring them to the Aetheneum and let the guild go through them, see what they were about.
Maea tried not to think too much as she worked. It was too painful. Even though these were simply tools of the trade, it was still objects she had seen handled by her family. Her grandfather climbing the rickety old ladder. A huge woven basket they had used to carry apples from the orchard to the brewery, dragged on a tiny cart that now stood out on the yard with a broken wheel. She remembered laughing as she helped Lienna drag it, while Noah and the children had pushed on from behind. The youngest, Leon, had only barely been able to keep up, his small hand holding on to the rim more for support than to aid the work.
Burning the things that could not be saved was even harder. Standing with a bucket of water in one hand and a two pronged hay fork in the other, she watched the flames consume memories with a very distant look on her face. Looking for all the world as though she might throw herself onto the pyre next, rather than sacrifice another piece of the farm.
lay your hands on me
one last time
MAEA
