Emberwood glass into butter, butter into starlight

The dimming sunlight threaded through the copse of forestry alike pin needles; small, minuscule beams fighting against the density to triumphantly caress the foliage obscured below, if only for a few, tender moments, that seemed fleeting in the hasty advent of nightfall.  She journeyed here despite her ailment – her lungs fighting her every step of the way – though it paled in comparison to the discomfort she felt amongst them.  Under the fortitudinous and proud expression veneered across her beauteous visage she writed in her anguish beneath – silently, secretly – for although she could now call this land home, she felt as though she were some leprous stowaway.  A vision of youth and loveliness choked into an embarrassing ghost of her former self, stashed under the floorboards for fear of discovery.  She felt alienated, she didn’t belong – and would she ever?  Her mind is hazed with contemplation, her ambulation sluggish, inelegant – an upturned root viperously bites at her wrist, and she stumbles forward.  She startles back to consciousness, her opposite foot steadfastly preserving her balance as it presses doggedly into the soil, and she is left staring blankly at the ground: lifeless, perhaps.  Her throat suddenly releases a cacophonous series of coughs, each becoming more passionate than the last – she gasps for oxygen, gagging, phlegm oozing from her mouth as a film of tears well upon the rims of her eyes.  She couldn’t understand what was wrong with her – was she doomed to die a peasant’s death?  An inconsequential, unremarkable expiry without those to mourn her?  She dreaded such a fate.  There was no one left to care about her now – she was utterly, bitterly, alone.

don't apologize, that was wonderful to read! @Sanguinus