Wheeling Gull Isle tridropa

maybe @Miseria but aw!

heda hummed as she patrolled, perhaps a snippet of worship that bartholomew had taught her. the tide was coming in and so was a storm. she hurried around the island with her long pale limbs, informing those she came across to soon seek cover.
heda checked the caches and pulled caught-fish higher on the bank, lodging them between stones.
and she took care with her mentor's lavender, trying to cover as much of it as possible with wide leaves.

miseria found heda today.
they were opposites, miseria afflicted with a sinking feeling of malaise where heda was the eidolon of what she thought go-getting girls should be.
magnetic dip poles seeking, "hey."

heda sensed the disunity of her friend at once. she left the leaf behind and turned to the other with a wide smile. "hey! i was just trying to cover these flowers before the storm came in. uh, bartholomew likes them," she added sheepishly, as if she needed an excuse.
her eyes searched miseria. "how have you been doing?"

the girl shifted on her haunches uncomfortably. she wasn't accustomed with niceties.
"fine, it's pretty nice here. how did you meet bartholomew anyways?" she moved towards the flower cautiously, looking at heda for admission and allowing her to have something to do.

heda shut her eyes and smiled a little. "i can hardly remember now. we met on the mainland, by the sea. i was — so angry. so angry. every home i ever had fell apart. my mother was dead, or she never came back. my brother disappeared. i had my milk-mom and my sisters, but i always felt so displaced."
she sighed. "i held onto my anger a long time when i first lived on the island. he helped me let go of it."

what heda spoke of made her heart twinge, not that it showed immeadeitly but in the flush of her eyes and long, considerate draw of breath.
she wanted a way out too, to let go.
"where i was born burned down. i lost my mother and my father in it all, i found my brother but he left me too."

miseria was affected. heda thought of her name — misery held in its tones — and she wondered if it was a name or an epithet.
"i'm sorry," the young woman said softly. she reached out to touch miseria, if allowed.
"here — here i think you can heal."