[P] Winters end

[Elena]

every day it feels like I’m holding back an ocean

They say those who forget history are damned to repeat it.
So she remembers. She remembers with a haunting, aching clarity all the parts of them, good and bad.
(Good is the river, good is the way they loved her, good is her family. Bad is him taking her, him touching her, and her leaving.)
She remembers this, remembers all of them, says their names sometimes (to herself, soft, barely a whisper). She does not forget history.

Yet she repeats it.

She repeats it, this cycle, of giving her heart and falling in love, coming and going and it always hurts, but yet it fills her heart close to bursting. Because love makes her feel like she might claw her way out of the spiral, like she is something else, something more, than just the sum of her parts, that she is more than fire and flames.

She repeats it, she will always give her heart too freely (wont she?) because fate decries it, but also because Elena cannot live without it.
This is history, writ across her smiles and her sobs, written in ink and blood and venom.

Elena had cradled close to the demon, to the monster, and it everyone else between. The way she wraps her golden body around them, it is selfish, she says it is all for them, but as the girl made of fire slips away, all she leaves is scorched skin behind.

She does not come from a land where they worship gods and goddesses. In Elena’s home, Valerio had often spoken of some higher power that controlled their fate, but Elena’s family had always found strength in their ancestors, the ones they try to make proud. Elena does not seek to please the gods, but nor does she search to anger them. She is content to be.

“Oh, oops,” she says in surprise as some of the supplies drops from the other mare. “No, I should be the one to apologize, for surprising you like that,” she offers, giving her a smile too and hoping she hadn't frightened her. “I understand that,” Elena responds. Tired, yes, she knows that word, it is hidden behind the blue of her eyes and curve of her sleek muscles, there is an ache to sleep and forget the world. A wish Elena only gives into as dusk passes and night begins.

“Of course,” another offer, jumping in so eagerly to help, to make a friend, to throw herself into some sort of job, desperate for a distraction. “Are you another Medic then?” She asks, peering curiously out at the girl with glacial blue eyes. “I was a healer apprentice in my old home,” she says. Does Paraiso count as her old home? Or is it her old, old, old home? She has been to far too many places, sank roots in to too many lands that Elena isn't even sure she can find soil any more. She begins unpacking, finding words easily as she keeps her body busy. “I tried politics for a while, but I guess you always end up back where you being,” she says with a laugh. “Have you always been involved in healing, Luvena? Or is this a recent development?”



* e l e n a
in the dark I’ll pray for the return of the light
the sunflower daughter of benjamin and beylani
medic of dusk.

@Luvena