She swore never again.
She swore it was the last time.
But here she is, wading in an ocean of grass that grabs at her ankles and threatens to pull her down and drown her in memory. Here she is, even though there are a thousand places at least that exist and do not harbour the anguish she knows this one to hold between its walls. Here she is, even though this meadow-sea is bursting at its seams with misery like an ancient wood dam in the midst of heavy rainfall. Here she is, scanning the horizon for something even while she will not admit it aloud, and denies it silently.
And there it is, a silver of silver in a too-bright meadow that on first glance she takes in as a reflection on the river water.
But she knows better.
She knows that silver can be familiar.
She knows that silver can be familiar, especially here in a meadow that feels endless like the sea, especially here on the river's edge, especially here by the hazel that grows aslant and washed in the red glow of a setting sun.
She swore never again.
She swore she would not look back, that she would become a pillar of salt if she did.
She swore that she would crumble.
But she looks.
It almost breaks her in half, again.
It almost spills her open on the river shore, again.
Because it feels like flesh being torn. Because it feels like choking on warm blood. Because it leaves her tongue dry, and it tastes metallic. And it first she knows that the silver figure on the horizon is Cordis, and the knowledge feels like mountains moved onto her chest. And next she knows that it is not, and the knowledge of that is heavy enough to grind her bones to dust, to leave her flattened and paper-thin.
She swore never again.
But she says: "Are you real?"
spyndle
you are the prettiest thing that I will ever know