etro --
in the hushing dusk, under a swollen silver moon,
I came walking with the wind to watch the cactus bloom
The sky is bleeding with the light of the stars tonight.
On any other night, Etro would be reveling in it—soaking up the milky glow of the constellations as it fell on her otherwise plain coat. She would have lifted her blocky head and let it wash over her, stirring in her things she did not understand, emotions she did not comprehend. But tonight, tonight she is mourning. The sorrow is as deep as her marrow and it cuts her to the quick. She can feel it in her throat as she walks along the border of the meadow and, despite her efforts, she finds herself coming back time and time again to the root of the anguish: her father. Despite the fact that it had been weeks since her mother had told her of her father’s passing, Etro still had not made peace with the fact. It just didn’t make sense.
Why would one of his daughter’s kill him? For what purpose?
Vanquish, to her, had always been somewhat of a god, thundering across the dunes above her, his shadow a constant presence as she ran through the sand as quickly as she was able. His voice had been storms and his very being had been eternal. It had never once crossed her mind that her parents may not be with her forever. And why would it? She was young and her mother was magic; her mother could quell hurricanes without blinking an eye and could summon monsters from the sand beneath them. Etro had assumed that she, and her father by extension, would always be there for her. She had simply taken them for granted.
To lose her father (and worse, to lose him by someone’s intent) was more than she could bear. But it was a sorrow made worse by her own sheer negligence. She had abandoned them. She had let fear of the illness crawling through her veins to manifest into a rage that had caused her to flee the scene. She had run from them, retreated, hid. She had spent years wandering outside the magic-soaked lands of Beqanna to regain her own selfish sense of reason—and she had foolishly thought she could return to the way it was.
Sobs clog her throat as she slips from shadow to shadow, her muddy brown eyes wet and her pace slow. It isn’t until she sees him, towering like her father, that she even changes her course, the action as instinctual as breathing. Of course, she would go to him. Of course. She is near him before she even knows what is happening and it takes everything within her to not fall upon his shoulder, to soak him in for the faint resemblance he bears. But, he is a stranger, and she still maintains some of her pride, some of her grace.
“Hello,” her voice is the only pretty thing about her—all fog and silver bells. “I’m sorry for intruding,” which is of course a lie, because she does not feel sorry at all for being near him. The more she looks, the more she sees her father in the line of his face and strength of his build, and she wonders if she is now seeing ghosts in strangers. How far will this sorrow take her? “I just needed company I suppose.” Her eyes drop a little to the ground beneath them, damp from a summer shower. “My name is Etro.”
-- vanquish and yael's forgotten trait-negating princess --
