Bonesplinter Ravine who thought she was a nightingale

✹☾❂

 

He was right about many things, but there was something he was most right about: Eleuthera was bitter. It was not without reason, for there were many things to be bitter about! She was not a pure, featherlight soul that never did wrong or experienced wrong done to her. At this point, the hand of her karmic retribution, she feared, was going to be very, very heavy.

— but what vexed her most upon her return to these lands certainly had much to do with death and what it had taken from her. Who was she to be so indulgent that she was not here when her family clearly needed her most? Why was she out feeding her whims and whimsy while Elysium was smote out of this very existence, with so little explanation. It was as if her own blood had been stolen from her, and she hated these lands for it as much as she loved them.

But the way the golden brute spoke about it was oddly comforting. It was nice to think that death was a peaceful thing. She had assumed it was an experience closely related to pain — but maybe it was more closely associated with nothingness, and moreover, the relief of pain. Perhaps, one day she might even make friends with death, though its hand in her pocket was a ruthless thief (where the living were concerned, at least). “If that is true, then perhaps I might like to die,” she mused almost dreamily, to no one in particular, holding the empty, locked stare of the half-rotted skull. The lilac fae fell silent as she wondered who was the more fortunate soul; she with her internal torture, or this dead thing with its nothingness. 

Eventually, she blinked and looked over to the man at her side. “My mothers are dead,” the woman admitted. Her voice still held a clear, demure sadness about it as she spoke the words. “All of them.”