The Heartwood meet me at the lighthouse of alexandria

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Kitsch was aware of the auspicious implausibility of West finding her but refused to recognize it. As far as the lissome pearl was concerned, the wilds were ablaze with hellfire; setting fire to anything that was inherently good and destroying it with alacrity… and she was not totally wrong, but for now West shielded her from the worst of it from within the heartwood. Kitsch knew she felt something like gratitude for her circumstances with the healer, but found herself unable to acknowledge any good fortune whatsoever. Melancholy leeched the energy from her body, already spent from the efforts of rehabilitation and most of her interminable days were spent listlessly plastered against the deciduous floor — a sorry sight to see, made more disturbing since Kitsch had never been one to wear her emotions on her sleeve. At that moment, those days after him, she had not the energy nor the wherewithal to build any sort of facade.

There was no need for West to entertain anxieties about Kitsch waking, for girl was in the throes of a torpid, dreamless sleep — the deep kind of dormancy only experience by the truly exhausted.  Her wounded soul settled in the shell of her body, breathing in quick and shallow huffs, until she stirred from her sleep by West’s analgesic voice. As the older woman manifested beneath the heartwood’s foliage, Kitsch looked up, eyes half-lidded and empty.  If she moved too much, she risked reopening the tattered wounds upon withers, so she remained inert and lateral. West had some news and the ingenue nodded apprehensively — and suddenly, she was worried that West would announce her departure, leaving her to the mercy of these stygian wilds like he had... like everyone had.

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