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+--- Thread: Fox's Glade I know we're not listened to, but: (/showthread.php?tid=53960)
I know we're not listened to, but: - Reverie - January 07, 2023
Dated a few days after this thread.
No one was coming.How many days had she lost? She blinked and shook her muzzy head, gazing around in wonder at the place which seemed so familiar and yet not. She couldn't recall coming here. She remembered the wetlands, finding that single patch of dry land and curling in on herself and closing her eyes. It had felt like it would be the last time; like she could have slept for a thousand years and never noticed, and woke to find her own life a distant memory. She still felt it, that bone-deep tiredness that left no room for her to feel anything else.
Reverie willed herself to think of Bjarna and Kvarsheim, but she felt only numb. Lestan, too, seemed unimportant. She didn't care; she didn't want them; she wanted only to be safe and warm, away from this place and this feeling. It was the thought of Tybault that finally roused some feeling in her, if only because she knew her brother would make things right. Rose had been her best friend, the other half of her soul, but Tybault had always been her protector, and she his. She guarded his secrets, he always told her, and he guarded her from the world.
Where was Tybault now? She'd left him, left all of them behind for a world where she could love freely and dance only for herself. Did he follow; was he out there, somewhere? Or was he back at home, protecting everyone the way he'd always wanted to? He would be older, a man as she was now a woman. She wondered if he was settling into the role more easily than she was, or if he too felt awkward and out of place.
Either way, he wasn't coming. She knew that, though it seemed terribly unfair. In his place she pictured some nameless, faceless rescuer, because reality simply felt too cruel to face. The reality was this:
No one would save her. No one knew where she went because she hadn't told them, because she had misled Lestan and hadn't stayed where she was meant to be. She would have to help herself, because no one else would, and even if someone came somehow — she didn't know if she wanted it. It wasn't as simple as just asking for help. She would be questioned, judged, maybe even pitied, and she didn't think she could stand that. Not now.
So Reverie took a deep breath and inspected her wounds. It wasn't as bad as it felt, really; she wouldn't die, as long as she took care of herself. And she could do that. She was realizing that her wish for a savior was rooted more in emotion than real need. The world was large and held so many things unknown to her, and she felt small and scared. It was a thing of beauty, and she loved it for that, but she was hopelessly outmatched. And in all her life, she had never been made to fend for herself, not truly. Even when she ran and lost all those months to the fog, it seemed life had not been unkind to her; she had come into herself healthy and whole, at least physically.
She found a small stream and cleaned herself, knowing instinctively that being cold and wet wouldn't help her wounds. Frankly, she didn't care. Reverie had resolved to help herself, to be her own savior, but she didn't feel any stronger; she didn't feel any different at all. She still felt tired, dirty, apathetic, and now a little hopeless too — because who would feel encouraged at the thought of having only her to rely upon? So she started with something that felt manageable: she felt dirty, and she could fix that. Tired would have to wait, and she didn't know what to do about feeling apathetic or hopeless but she figured those could wait too.
Eventually the blood was mostly gone, and she was soaked and colder than she'd ever been but she felt a little better. A little less awful. It was a start. She could see the damage more clearly now, and saw that she'd irritated the wound on her shoulder and caused it to trickle blood. She sighed. It wasn't ideal, none of it was, but she had to start somewhere, right?
There were signs of infection in her shoulder, but the wound at the back of her thigh seemed fine. They were both beginning to heal; the infection was so slight she wondered if it might fade without intervention. Her mood lifted by degrees, and she felt confident enough to survey her surroundings more thoroughly. She knew this place. Kvarsheim was not far.
Feeling lighter now, she shook her coat out one final time. Already she was beginning to transform into a damp puff of gold. Reverie took another breath and started toward Kvarsheim, not limping but walking slowly and unsteadily. She still didn't feel any stronger, but at least she knew that she could do this. She didn't need anyone's help, or their prying eyes. Some things, she suddenly felt, were too personal to share; too unfiltered and ugly and intimate to be explained. Some things had to be experienced alone.