Broken Antler Fen She hangs her head and cries on my shirt

How had they gone from being friends to Bronco assuming that every word Wraen said was an insult of some sort? It was as if she was talking to a stone wall. Worse even - the more she tried to explain, the angrier he got, until he no longer was that swarthy, thoughtful adult she had grown to love, but that pain-in-the-ass teenager, who she had barely tolerated back in the days. He was unjust to her - she had apologized, she had tried to explain, tried to make him understand in the best way possible, she had pleaded him to get over it and move on - instead he had chosen to cater to his wounded pride, wallow in self-pity that an elder had wronged him, remain so wrapped in his own importance that Wraen no longer saw a point to make any amends. Let him be then.

Had she been younger and more explosive in her emotions, she would have yelled something nasty after him, just to make him hurt more. Or maybe something dramatic - leave now and never show your face here again! But that would be waste of words. At the moment she was very sure that it would be long before Bronco howled on this borders again. If ever. Had she been younger, she would have felt guilty for every failed relationship, she would have gone through every word she had said, every action to analyze, what had gone wrong and why, what she could have done differently. Up until this very moment she had blamed herself for the fallout with Terance, but now she realized that it takes two to mess up relationships. And that sometimes - inevitably - people grow apart and people choose to leave and you cannot keep them from doing that. That would explain, while instead of feeling devastated and heartbroken about losing yet another friend, she was eerily calm. Numb even. 

Wraen sighed and began to walk through the plot, where she was building her new and, hopefully, final home. She was searching for something. And, while she did this, her mind processed the most recent loss. The death of a friendship. She had not attended any funerals, because none of her loved ones had left this Earth for her to be present for the occasion. Of all the wealth of stories she knew, Wraen realized that among them weren't any eulogies, songs or rites. Nothing. Just a bundle of faded memories, regrets of what could have been and no proper closure. She knew that, if she was to survive this and move on, she had to put this sorrow to rest, before her imagination enhanced it, made it grow and eventually devour her whole. She promised herself here and now that she would cry about this exactly once and, when the next day would greet her, she would leave the past to rest in its grave and move on. She would shed no more tears about it, she wouldn't feel remorse for things that she could not change. She would no longer mourn people, who did not fight, but chose to leave. 

It occurred to her suddenly - and here she laughed to herself humourlessly - that inspired by memorials she and Maia had created for their parents and siblings, she was, in fact, looking for a memorial for a person that was still alive. Had she been more superstitious, she would have chosen another way of dealing with her grief. But a spiteful part of her, the exact same, prideful one, wanted a retaliation. A cruel joke that only she would know. Because - let's be honest - Bronco, who she had known, loved so dearly and taught, had died. Whether it was today or several weeks ago - did not matter. He was gone. Gone, gone, gone, gone... she repeated this to herself over and over again, each time more bitter anger swelling in her heart. Wraen began to run, no longer searching, just wishing to get to the furthest corner of the fen, so no one would see her break down. That kind of embarrassment she did not wish to endure. Pity and compassion from others - even less. 

The right monument of the failed friendship presented itself, when Wraen, oblivious of, where she had been going, had walked half-way through over the frozen lake, had slipped and fallen. And, when she raised herself again, there it was. A small lonely island, far from the shore. She was almost sure that this little patch of ground flooded in the spring and did not emerge from water until the summer. Some grass, a patch of small trees and bushes. That was it. It was perfect. There in the snow she made a little comfy burrow and finally let the grief take over. All the memories - good and bad - came in waves, once enlivened by her imagination, were finally sealed with tears and let go. One by one, until the shelf that held Bronco's name was empty, not even a speck of dust left. The last thing to do was to rip off the label and let the empty space fill in with different memories. New meaningful relationships. Because life did not just take away, it also gave. 

The sun was setting and blinking against the bright golden light, Wraen was facing the island for the last time. She intended to hold true to her promise. Cry only once. And it felt as if the figurative funeral she had held for Niamh's son had helped her. Of course, she would not be okay for a very long time, but she had made the first big step on a new path. The last thing left to do was to say some final words. After some deliberation she uttered a quiet: "Here you shall rest in peace and will never haunt me again!" Then she turned and did not look back, just as she had not tried to stop Bronco and see him leave. Wraen did not feel like hero at first - she felt absolutely miserable, her cheeks were still wet and there were moments, when she would teeter on the edge of sobbing again. But then she thought about her mother and grandmother. Proud women, who would not have cried over spilled milk. And to whom proving that she was not a weepy mess, suddenly felt more important than anything else. She lifted her head, she straightened herself and put more confidence in her stride. 

Life was shit now, but tomorrow would be another day.

Tomorrow... things were going to be better. 

Wraen would survive.

She always had.

Always will.