when you think all is forsaken; hawke

[Rora]

You need never feel broken again.

It was easy, when the new year began, to believe this one would last forever. After all, I had no notion of how long a year was when I was only a few days old. It seemed an eternity, stretching forth into incomprehension, a hundred lifetimes between the start and the end. When summer was high and the whole world was green, it was easy to believe all of life would be so vibrant, pulsing with vitality, the air shimmering with heat and possibility.

But now.

Now, as another year draws to a close, as the weight of its ending presses in on me from all sides, all I see is a glowing white room and a glowing white girl and a noose slowly tightening around her, slowly constricting, just waiting for the right moment to crush the life out of her. I wonder still if I made the right choice, letting Time’s love die. I wonder still if there was some way to save her that would not have cost an already tumultuous world more than it could have handled.

So easy to forget when the world is green. But when snow blankets the Meadow and turns the world that same glowing white, she is all I see.

I used to love the snow, too, kicking up my heels and frolicking in an endless cloud of sparkling crystals, rolling and feeling it crunch beneath the weight of my coat, then mousy grey and fluffy, now the inky black velvet of the night sky. A sky without stars, just a dying crescent moon on my forehead to cast any light in the dark. I didn’t know the dark could be so heavy until the snow fell again, and the dying screams of the year about to pass started echoing in silent waves across my skin.

I try not to show it, though, try not to let Mom and Daddy and Uncle Kade see how it weighs me down, pressing in on me from all sides and making it hard to catch a breath sometimes. The crisp, cold air, sharp as knives and heavy as a velvet curtain about to draw on the end of this year’s life, catches in my lungs and god but it aches.

My steps are heavy as I trudge through the Meadow, doubt pressing down on me ‘til my head hangs lower than it should, ‘til my hooves drag trails in the snow instead of leaving precise hoofprints in the pristine blanket of white. And when even that glacial pace feels too hard, I give in and stand still, raising my head to look at the sky. Falling snow clings to my topline, settling on hips that seem to have grown faster than the rest of me, sticking in my mane and tail, catching on my lashes, lingering on my nose until a heavy sigh dislodges them.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, feeling the tightness of that glowing noose constricting my chest the same way it closed around her. “I’m so sorry.”

Sometimes darkness can show you the light.

pic by Qinni

[hawke]

clarity, paint me bright like stars in the dark of night

Time was a funny thing.  

Or, Hawke supposes, he was a funny thing. 

(It was still strange to think of the man, and his two legs, and his odd tail. 
To think of Time as a living entity and not a thing.)

For although Rora was weighed down by her choices, hopelessly hurt by the decision she had to make, the woman she had left behind, Hawke was buoyed by them. For as the years reach their end, she thinks about the empty room and the woman who no longer lived there

—the woman who had been saved.

Because in Hawke’s river of time, love conquered all.

Of course, this is not something she shares often, or readily, because in many ways the adventure does not feel real even to her. Not the worst parts, where claws dug into her haunches and her flesh gave way, or the best parts, when purpose and adventure thrilled through her young veins. It was difficult to remind herself that it was real and it happened to her. It was not some fantastic dream that she concocted.

She was surprised when she saw the young black mare, the sadness practically palpable around her, and her wild heart broke at the thought of it. Her ears perked as she caught the soft whisper, and her mouth turned down into a frown. For a moment, she paused, wondering if hit would be kinder to give the mare some space, but she decided against it. In the same situation, she knew that she would want the company.

“I apologize for intruding,” her voice was quiet but steady—remarkably self-assured for someone of her young age. “But I overheard you.” Her face was washed with sympathy as she came to a stop. “Is there anything that I can do to help?”

[Rora]

I missed the sound of her approaching footsteps, too lost in grief and doubt and pain to pay attention to my surroundings. Her voice is my first clue, and by then it’s too late to paste on a smile and pretend nothing is wrong. Any hope I might have had to the contrary is dashed when I turn to meet her eyes, shining with sympathy. I could curse my carelessness, expecting the Meadow of all places to be empty enough for me to let my guard down, but what good would it do?

With a sad little smile, I shrug and duck my head, buying a moment to get myself under control. “It’s alright,” I murmur, almost whisper-quiet. “My own fault for not paying more attention to where I am.” And to who’s around.

Touched by her offer of help, I look up, meeting her soft hazel eyes. “Thank you, but I don’t think...I don’t think there’s really anything you can do, though I appreciate the offer. I...I think I made a terrible mistake, one I can’t fix or take back. It’s just...it’s just weighing heavily on me right now. Maybe it’s just the time of year, you know? Coming around again and reminding me. I’ll be okay. It’s sweet of you to offer, though.”