cold in the violence after the war
hope is a fire to keep us warm
She has never been one to question herself or her purpose. Truthfully, she had never spared much thought for her purpose here. She had grown up with a vague understanding of what truths there were to know about her, but she had never been tempted to inspect them too deeply. She is a woman of action, not word. Her body is made for protection. For war, if one will. It had seemed only natural to follow in her father’s footsteps in that way. And pain is an inevitable side effect of life.
These are her truths. It is only recently, as her world has begun to tumble on its very head, that she has grown to realize her life does not truly seem to have a purpose. Without the eclipsing shadow of her mother looming over her, she had been coming to realize that she had long been spared the necessity of fending, or even truly thinking, for herself.
And she had discovered too, that riddles are definitely not her forte. She doesn’t know how Heartfire had done it all, even with her overreaching sight. And she has come to the conclusion that she doesn’t particularly wish to know. Though that realization housed the carefully skirted understanding that perhaps she wouldn’t find out what had happened to her mother. An understanding she had been trying very hard to avoid, because that would mean, for the first time in her life, she is truly alone. First, her father, then her brother. And now, her mother.
It didn’t bear thinking about. Yet, it is an unavoidable truth.
When her aimless feet bring her to the beach, as though she might find her mother standing there staring out to sea as she so often had, she wears the expression of one who has entirely lost her way. For a moment, she doesn’t register the figure on the beach. But when her name echoes across the misty air on a question, she blinks, focusing.
It’s a familiar face that greets her. One she hasn’t seen in far too long. That recognition brings a nearly forgotten lightness to her heart, and her expression brightens. Perhaps both of them had learned too much of the world since last they’d met, but for a moment they are young and naive and optimistic, even if it is in no more than Brazen’s memories.
“Lilli!” she exclaims, stepping forward into a brief jog to close the distance. The sudden movement causes dried wounds to crack, a trickle crimson tracing exposed bone, though it remains entirely unnoticed by Brazen. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again.”
Brazen