“What have I become, my sweetest friend?
Everyone I know goes away in the end."
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The number of times everything has fallen to pieces only to half-way rebuild itself could not be counted. Perhaps it was to be expected when you lived far too many lifetimes, that you would endure that much more than the average being. And while she never thought it would have happened, every time she broke she became stronger. To go from the delicate porcelain-doll she had once been – once smooth and unmarred, and then to the ever-building spider-web of cracks that Dhumin started and everyone else had finished – to whatever she was now was something she had never imagined. She would not claim to be now unbreakable, nor has she hardened herself to the rest of the world in some attempt to save herself. She was just as vulnerable as she has always been, but now with the knowledge that nothing – not even death – was going to be the end of her.
If ever there had been bitterness harbored in her heart it didn’t show. The edges of her lips always seemed to hold the ghost of a smile, and while there may be melancholy hidden in the shadows of her soul there was certainly no anger. She had every reason to be; she was riddled with scars, some that could be seen and some that remained internal. The black, jagged crack across the top of her head that for the most part remained hidden by her white forelock was a constant reminder of when her own daughter had turned on her – the first time that she had tasted death. The scarred sockets that had once held eyes sat like gaping, depthless holes, and she can hardly remember what it had been like to see, having been surrounded by darkness for so long.
The scars across her heart were deeper and more confusing, and sometimes she can’t remember who left which ones. And yet it beats nonetheless, pulsing on its own just as easily as it always had, and often she does not notice the dull ache that sometimes fills her chest. The white mare steps into the meadow, the path so familiar beneath her feet that she does not even need eyes to know where it leads. So much of Beqanna has changed, yet there were small parts of it that remained the same. It takes her directly to the lone oak that she often stood beneath, and she can hear the way the dry leaves above her rustle in the autumn wind. There is a crispness in the air, one that is only evident this time of year. It is perhaps the only time that she misses her eyes – the fire-colors of the leaves had been one of her favorite sights, rivaled only with the stars on a clear night and the gray light of dawn that met each new day.
A slender shoulder leans against the broad trunk of the tree, her delicate ears flicking back and forth as she catches bits and pieces of conversation. Rarely did she venture into the heart of the meadow anymore, but instead often stood here, simply listening. Most did not notice the ghostly white mare that stood alone on the hill.
R Y A T A H
you could have it all, my empire of dirt
