the ghost of a girl that i want to be mostthe shell of a girl i used to know well She can only think one thing: this used to be home. Used to be, is, was, will be – the Gates is a place holding both fond and unwanted memories. It is a place of her childbirth, her childhood, her adulthood, her job as a parent, and her disappearance. It is a place she survived and lived and loved, and it always will be these things.
Her heart is not tied down primarily to the nature or physical things of her homeland. Her heart aches for the things – the memories, the daydreams, the thoughts, the hopes, the wishes, the knowledge – that the Gates embodies. Her parents (with their achingly gentle yet comforting love for each other), her adopted siblings (with their struggling stories and unconquered endings), her Mother Tree (with its swaying branches ready to envelope her in a lulling hug), her woodland friends (the doe watching her from a distance, the birds chirping around her shoulder, and the friendly squirrels), and her Mast (her childhood best friend and her forever best friend).
She once used to govern the Gates. Once she used to walk around her kingdom with a crown of flowers tangled into her chocolate locks and murmur to the breeze and whisper to her kingdom-mates about life. Although her kingdom was quiet and gentle, it was also peaceful. It seems like such a lifetime ago, when it had really only been four years.
This Gates is not peaceful. She can sense it in the wind, in the lack of life in the tree tops, in the startling absence of the Mother Tree. Her heart breaks – for her kingdom, for her homeland, for the nature around her, for her dear lover somewhere. Something has happened, and recently, for she can smell the leftover ash of smoke and fire in the air. It brings back memories of the disaster, but she shoves it away.
She doesn’t rush into the scene with panic though (her years of training as a princess and then experience as a queen have taught her to be against such things) and instead grieves quietly and silently before entering the Gates. It is a long process, but she knows she must reach Mast soon – goodness knows he would be upset about the Mother Tree – and she’s also curious to know what happened.
So stuffing the broken bits and pieces of her grieving soul away, she steps into her homeland.
camelia 
I've heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord
but you don't really care for music do you?
Once, he’d chased butterflies across the kingdom, his lovely Cammie frolicking behind. They’d lolled the hours away under the Mother Tree or on the neighboring beach. They had been children then, blissfully unaware of the atrocities that the world had to offer. As they had grown, so had the love between them. Playful kisses grew into embraces, the embraces blossoming into the creation of a son. He had loved her unconditionally and fully. No one else had ever captured his imagination the way she had. She had been the moon and the stars, and when she had left his world had come crashing down. Thankfully, he’d had his kingdom, and had thrown himself completely into making it something great. But she was always there lingering in the back of his mind. Occasionally, he’d catch a whiff of honeysuckle, and he would look into the forest hopefully, but it was never more than just the honeysuckle itself.
Today was different though. He was grazing absent mindedly when the winds shifted. First the honeysuckle and then something else, something sweeter perhaps, flooded his senses. The gray king raised his head sharply, his nostrils quivering as he took in the sweet breeze. There was no doubt- he would remember her scent anywhere. Hers was the only mane he’d ever buried himself in, the only skin he had ever learned every inch of. Tossing his head he leapt forward and galloped to the border, weaving and ducking around the trees in the forest. Finally he spotted her, and his heart responded by trying to leap from his chest. There was no pause to take in her form, no awkward stare. He closed the gap between them as quickly as possible, and soon his mouth was working along her jaw line, then to her crest and down her mane. He felt like a drunk who had been abstaining, only to happen upon a bottle of wine. Though he hadn’t realized it, he had been starving for her. “Camelia.” he murmured, not removing his mouth from her neck. He was afraid that by doing so, he would lose her again. For now, her name was his salvation. “I’ve missed you, God I’ve missed you. You have no idea…” His voice trailed off, but words weren’t important right now. She was the most important, her being here, back in their home.
M A S T
the ghost of a girl that i want to be mostthe shell of a girl i used to know well The second the scent of him (that strong, masculine, familiar scent) wafts into her nostrils, her heart leaps. He’s still here, waiting for her. But suddenly her chest tightens in a moment of doubt. Perhaps he found someone else, while she was gone. Perhaps he had gone to seek out better company in her absence. Perhaps he’d had more children – raised a son or daughter that wasn’t of her own womb and blood. Perhaps he’d found another to hide his face in when nightmares set in or his frustration got the better of him. Perhaps he’d given his heart away to someone who wasn’t her.
However, the sight of him racing toward her calmed those terrifying thoughts. Her insides felt tangled and tight, her heart beating faster than any run could have caused it, her mouth already forming into that long-lost sunny smile. She doesn’t expect him to stop and he doesn’t. Their first touch is electric and satisfying, like a first drink of cool water after being stranded in a desert. It soothes her sunburned skin and quenches her undying thirst for him. His touches and kisses are rushed and sloppy but it only serves as a symbol of how much he missed her and she missed him.
His name rises like a choked sob out of her throat. “Mast.” She can’t bring her voice to say anything more than his name, so she repeats it. “Mast, Mast, Mast.” It is a chant, a song, a poem, a story – it is the name her heart whispers with each beat against her ribcage, it is the name written on her inhales and exhales, it is the name that she thinks every night before she falls asleep and every morning when she wakes up. “Mast, Mast.” Her head turns to return the touches, erratic and tender.
Although their homeland has burnt around their feet, their love remains strong and honest.
When they are sedated from their touches (for now, at least; although she knows she will never be able to get enough of him), she stays close and nestles her face in the tangle of his mane. “What happened?” she whispers, her voice a rush of worry and grief. The Gates had burned before, but the Mother Tree had kept them safe. Now, there is no Mother Tree to protect them or itself. Her heart pangs again, burning at the image of the Mother Tree drawing it’s mighty branches close around Camelia as her childhood self, soothing her when she became scared from the sound of the wind between the trees.
camelia
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