so long, my luckless romance; any

[leliana]

I know what it is but I'm hoping that all is well
no harvest of green but it's still my heart to sell

 
Ghosts follow her here.

She can feel them, their fingers tangled in her hair and the feathers that curl protectively around her barrel. She can feel the ash and the salt, the remnants of them bitter in her mouth with the stale taste of tears long dried up and sorrow long gone to dust. She is hesitant to open her eyes. Hesitant to take in the shapes of this land that has wrought such pain—rooted with so much anguish. Still, for all of the pain and aches, she is not fearful. She does not turn her dappled cheek. Instead she lifts her chin slightly higher, the almond of her eyes widening almost imperceptibly in protest. She would not bend. She would not fold.

Not to this.

Not today.

Instead, each step, gentle and searching, is deliberate, the sound of hooves pressing through dried leaves and brittle grass the sound of victory as it rings through her crimson-tipped ears. It has been years. It has been years since the moments that gutted her and left such deep scars whittled into her bones. It has been years since she was a young girl, crying into the wind, reaching for that which just slipped through her fingers. It had been years and yet—and yet—the memories do not fade. The ghosts do not relent. Instead, the wings that press into her sides flicker in painful reminder, turning from the soft white down to the jarring skeleton of the ghosts that bruise her eyes and dry her throat. For a moment, the wings turn leather and bone—and the feel of them is enough to make her waiver, one leg lifted in a moment of pause.

She takes a steading breath, the sweet scent of summer honeysuckle grounding her, the tears threatening to spill drying before they lap over. With a determination that surprises even her, her leg falls to meet the earth, and her wings shift to match the ivory and honey of the flower that lifts sweetly around her. The turn to petals and dripping leaves, a collision of nature that laces across her back in gentle reminder, before they fall back to her typical sunset red—and she is home. The effort of it almost winds her, and the weakness brings a shame against the back of her throat, the feeling hot and unrelenting.

She was meant to be stronger than this.

It had been years.

Years.

Still, the memories do not feel old. They do not feel brittle or aged. Instead, the edges still slice and cut and she has to deliberately turn from them to face the rising sun, begging the hope of the coming rays to warm her from the inside out. The gentle light of it washes across her face and she closes her eyes for but a moment, wishing away the ache that gnaws at her bones and lights in her belly—the memories painful and vivid. (There, beneath, the tree, was where they had first met. Over there, stolen moments. There, painful goodbyes.) His scent no longer permeates this place, but she smells it still—and she swallows.

She would not bend.

She would not fold.

Not to this.

Not today.
 

I put everything I had into something that didn't grow
like going on a wild hunt, shooting arrows without a bow