[P] she burns [autumn]

[Elena]

take this burden away from me
and bury it before it buries me

She remembers Orani, the star talker, looking at her one day, curiously. “Your mother talked to stars, Aletta, talks to the stars, and your best friends speaks them as well. But you, Elena, you do not,” she had pointed out to the golden filly. “Why is that so? Do you not trust them?” Elena had simply smiled and turned to her freckled friend. “The stars are not my confidants, they are my compass.”

And it is the stars that she lets guide her tonight, as she dances through the Night Market as if she were moving on paths of spring tulips and summer lilies. Her mind was easy tonight. Maybe this is why, when she had learned of the costume party, she had decided to gather what materials she can, borrowing a beautiful cloak from one of her neighbors. It was red, with a beautiful sheen to it, enough to keep her warm on the chilled autumn evening. Little Red Riding Hood.

Huh.
Fitting.

The cloak is put over her shoulders, the hood drawn up over her head, and the it tied comfortably around her neck. It sits nicely over her body, and from behind, no one would ever guess it to be Elena. Which, in Dencote, the palomino considers a blessing. As she roams their streets, she is always surprised by the light that illuminates Night Court, hardly one for its name it would seem. She joins the crowd of people and slips herself inside all of them, letting blue eyes look around to each. There are skeletons, their bodies painted bone white, there is a pair foals, twins with their faces painted intricately to look like butterflies and she thinks of Lilli and her own twins, and how, if she could, she would paint Nash and Yan just as the same. Though Yan would probably placate his mother, Nash would be hard to find with such markings. There is someone dressed a zombie, dragging a back foot and Elena must shed a sliver of laughter for his effort.

Pale locks flow from behind her against the crimson of her cloak. The sea breeze tastes different here, too hidden, mixed with the pine of the mountains rather than the wildflowers and cliffs of Terrastella. She smiles, and she smiles, because there is joy all around her and excitement and the empath embraces, grateful to be lost in what all the others feel.

She isn't thinking about dreams she has had, or ghosts that rest behind her mirrored eyes. She isn't thinking of pain and sorrow and what could have been’s and what will never be’s. No, she isn't thinking about dreams. Not until she sees his face before her. Her smile dances and it turns into starlight. “Oh my,” she says in a small, silver voice. “Don’t you know how to sweep a lady off her feet?” She jests before taking the flower, her heart brushing against her chest in a flutter of excitement. But then blue eyes study him, carefully, landing on the corner of a cheek bone, a strange place to see, but it makes her want to ask him that time old question - do I know you, have we met? “I—” she stumbles on words that should come easily to her, because his eyes look into her own and she isn't sure what she should say next. “Thank you, for the flower,” she says and lowers her red hood, letting it sit around her shoulders. The flower is placed in her creamy mane, and she turns to the side so that he is able to see. “What do you think?” She smiles, though she cannot help the way that blue eye tilts out to the corner, wondering, if this flower was not the first thing he has given her.

so take away this apathy
bury it before it buries me

@Dune