YOU WATCH YOURSELF.
you watch the watcher too - / a ghostly figure on the garden wall. / and one of you is her, and one is you, / if either one of you exists at all.☙❧
Were it any other time of the year, I think that the fields would have likely been beautiful.
As things are: the grass is dead and mostly browned. Thin and brittle and bobbing in the wind, like a second and golden sea. It’s pretty in its own way, but I’d like to see it green, like I’ve been told that it is in the spring – I’ve never seen a spring before, or green more than the last vestiges that remain as autumn ends, and almost nothing is green at home unless we make it so. It’s cold, but not as cold as it has been, and the heavy snows (I remember the first one I saw; I could hardly wrap my mind around the concept) have given away to frost again, like winter is slipping away to autumn again. Logically, I know that winter is slipping to spring – but I don’t know what spring is, so I can only think of it as another kind of autumn.
I’ve been here for months, and I still haven’t found the heir. I try not to be troubled by it – I try not to feel my heart in my throat every time I think that I see the sigil on some passing stranger, only to inevitably be disappointed when the mark is somehow wrong. Sometimes I think that I should tell someone why the heir is so important, why I need to find them so urgently; it might help me organize people to search, or something like it. But try as I might, I can’t quite bring myself to tell anyone the truth of the heir, or the truth of our rulers. The outsiders have stolen them away from us already – I am not sure what they might do if even more of them knew what they could do.
I’m not in the fields to search for the heir, though. (I’d be better off searching for them in the courts I haven’t visited yet – namely, Dawn and Night.) I’m here to search for someone else entirely.
Elena’s girl reminds me of something I only hazily remember. I had a younger sister in my second life, though I never felt quite so close to her as my elder sister in my first; but watching her grow up before my eyes reminds me of things that I’d thought I’d forgotten. I watch her, and I feel strange. I’ve only been in this world for a moment, particularly compared to how long I have lived, but I have known the girl for her entire life. (I – assume that her soul is newborn, anyways.) We have no innate relation – only one borne from the kindness of strangers. I don’t know how to feel about that, exactly. No one is quite a stranger at home.
I find her in the fields, a splash of snowy white and tawny, like owl’s feathers – like my long-dead elder sister – against the pale gold strands. A smile spreads unthinkingly across my lips, because I’ve brought something with me. I don’t think that she is much the type for it, but it will be good for a girl of her age to learn how to use. “Elliana?” I approach her, my gift nestled beneath the soft curve of my wing – hidden, for now, from sight. “I have something for you.”
@Elliana || <3 <3 <3 || wendy cope, "by the round pond"
Speech
you watch the watcher too - / a ghostly figure on the garden wall. / and one of you is her, and one is you, / if either one of you exists at all.☙❧
Were it any other time of the year, I think that the fields would have likely been beautiful.
As things are: the grass is dead and mostly browned. Thin and brittle and bobbing in the wind, like a second and golden sea. It’s pretty in its own way, but I’d like to see it green, like I’ve been told that it is in the spring – I’ve never seen a spring before, or green more than the last vestiges that remain as autumn ends, and almost nothing is green at home unless we make it so. It’s cold, but not as cold as it has been, and the heavy snows (I remember the first one I saw; I could hardly wrap my mind around the concept) have given away to frost again, like winter is slipping away to autumn again. Logically, I know that winter is slipping to spring – but I don’t know what spring is, so I can only think of it as another kind of autumn.
I’ve been here for months, and I still haven’t found the heir. I try not to be troubled by it – I try not to feel my heart in my throat every time I think that I see the sigil on some passing stranger, only to inevitably be disappointed when the mark is somehow wrong. Sometimes I think that I should tell someone why the heir is so important, why I need to find them so urgently; it might help me organize people to search, or something like it. But try as I might, I can’t quite bring myself to tell anyone the truth of the heir, or the truth of our rulers. The outsiders have stolen them away from us already – I am not sure what they might do if even more of them knew what they could do.
I’m not in the fields to search for the heir, though. (I’d be better off searching for them in the courts I haven’t visited yet – namely, Dawn and Night.) I’m here to search for someone else entirely.
Elena’s girl reminds me of something I only hazily remember. I had a younger sister in my second life, though I never felt quite so close to her as my elder sister in my first; but watching her grow up before my eyes reminds me of things that I’d thought I’d forgotten. I watch her, and I feel strange. I’ve only been in this world for a moment, particularly compared to how long I have lived, but I have known the girl for her entire life. (I – assume that her soul is newborn, anyways.) We have no innate relation – only one borne from the kindness of strangers. I don’t know how to feel about that, exactly. No one is quite a stranger at home.
I find her in the fields, a splash of snowy white and tawny, like owl’s feathers – like my long-dead elder sister – against the pale gold strands. A smile spreads unthinkingly across my lips, because I’ve brought something with me. I don’t think that she is much the type for it, but it will be good for a girl of her age to learn how to use. “Elliana?” I approach her, my gift nestled beneath the soft curve of my wing – hidden, for now, from sight. “I have something for you.”
@
Speech
EVERYTHING IS RISK, SHE WHISPERED.if you doubt, it becomes sand trickling through skeletal fingers.☙❧please tag Nic! contact is encouraged, short of violence
