That day in Illuster feels like only yesterday. He can still see the red-and-gold leaves of the maple tree planted beside her house, and the vines that had grown around and around the walls like so many nooses ready to strangle the life. He can still smell the saltwater that had dripped from the ceiling, and left tear tracks down her face. He can still hear her voice, how wrong it had sounded between her rotting teeth. The cottage they had torn apart with their magic feels like only yesterday, and yet —
And yet it was well into winter now. The colors of fall had been hidden beneath all those layers of snow, burying the smell of death, the blood, the rotten pieces of themselves they had cut away and left in the meadow.
And life had gone on.
More or less.
He walks the streets each day and asks his people how they are doing. He watches the forest for more signs of blood, or darkness, or cold cutting away at their hearts. He tends his garden, a small patch of color in an otherwise colorless world.
He still hasn’t gone to see the Emissary.
It’s easier to pretend she stopped existing, the moment he shut the prison door on her and replaced her world with darkness. It’s easier to pretend the world was right again, and safe, and simple. To kiss his daughters’ bruised eyes awake at noon and not ask them which nightmares had kept them up this time.
But if it was so much easier, why then could he not stop looking to the trees, looking for more shadows, more ghosts, more monsters? Why could he not stop —
He cuts away another blackened camellia flower, prunes wilting leaves from the winter jasmine and ivies. Over and over he goes to work in the garden, bidding new stems to grow for all the ones he cuts away, until the flowers are brighter than they have been every winter before. He can almost forget, while he’s in the garden, that it’s winter again. He can almost remember what it feels like to not look for shadows around every turn.
He knows the warden by his steps alone, by the crackle of electricity that runs through the air around him. Ipomoea does not look up from the winter holly when Andras finds him. The bush creeps to life under his care, more leaves unfurling, more berries reddening, shaking off the snow it had collected overnight. He wishes it were as easy for him, for Andras, for them.
When did they forget how to be soft?
“Good morning, Andras,” it all comes back like a sigh he has been holding back for too long. He straightens up at last, turning to the pegasus with a smile that feels more forced than it used to. “It’s been a while.”
He does not say that it doesn’t feel like it. He doesn’t say that he sometimes goes down to the prisons and stands there just outside her cell, waiting — never going in, but listening for the rasp of her breath, making sure she was still in there.
There are only so many things he can blame on Emersyn.
“I’ve been —“ unable to sleep “alright.” He knows how the words sound. He makes up for it with another smile, to take the edge off. “How about you?”
And he wonders in Andras finds it just as hard to sleep now as he does.
And yet it was well into winter now. The colors of fall had been hidden beneath all those layers of snow, burying the smell of death, the blood, the rotten pieces of themselves they had cut away and left in the meadow.
And life had gone on.
More or less.
He walks the streets each day and asks his people how they are doing. He watches the forest for more signs of blood, or darkness, or cold cutting away at their hearts. He tends his garden, a small patch of color in an otherwise colorless world.
He still hasn’t gone to see the Emissary.
It’s easier to pretend she stopped existing, the moment he shut the prison door on her and replaced her world with darkness. It’s easier to pretend the world was right again, and safe, and simple. To kiss his daughters’ bruised eyes awake at noon and not ask them which nightmares had kept them up this time.
But if it was so much easier, why then could he not stop looking to the trees, looking for more shadows, more ghosts, more monsters? Why could he not stop —
He cuts away another blackened camellia flower, prunes wilting leaves from the winter jasmine and ivies. Over and over he goes to work in the garden, bidding new stems to grow for all the ones he cuts away, until the flowers are brighter than they have been every winter before. He can almost forget, while he’s in the garden, that it’s winter again. He can almost remember what it feels like to not look for shadows around every turn.
He knows the warden by his steps alone, by the crackle of electricity that runs through the air around him. Ipomoea does not look up from the winter holly when Andras finds him. The bush creeps to life under his care, more leaves unfurling, more berries reddening, shaking off the snow it had collected overnight. He wishes it were as easy for him, for Andras, for them.
When did they forget how to be soft?
“Good morning, Andras,” it all comes back like a sigh he has been holding back for too long. He straightens up at last, turning to the pegasus with a smile that feels more forced than it used to. “It’s been a while.”
He does not say that it doesn’t feel like it. He doesn’t say that he sometimes goes down to the prisons and stands there just outside her cell, waiting — never going in, but listening for the rasp of her breath, making sure she was still in there.
There are only so many things he can blame on Emersyn.
“I’ve been —“ unable to sleep “alright.” He knows how the words sound. He makes up for it with another smile, to take the edge off. “How about you?”
And he wonders in Andras finds it just as hard to sleep now as he does.
@
”here am i!“
