Wapun Meadow and I've got one foot in the door

AW :)

the morning was soft, like a ripe peach left out in the sun.
mist clung to the earth in thin, silken layers, and dew freckled the long grass like stars fallen down to rest.
eulie dawn stood in the plains thicket, head tilted just so, eyes half-lidded in that dreamy way she wore like a veil.
her coat, all russet and cream, shimmered faintly where the light kissed it. the birds had gathered—small ones, round ones, feathered things with beady eyes and curious hearts. they perched along the low branches, chirping, twitching, still.
then she began to sing.
not loud, not boastful, but low. haunting.
a covey song, pulled from old bones and river wind. her voice slipped between the branches, curling over the feathers and blossoms, threading through the quiet.
little bones, little bones, laid beneath the pine,
whistle through your hollow hearts and keep me in line—
sky broke open, storm rolled through,
but i kept the song that i promised you.
one of the birds fluttered its wings. another tilted its head. a third, bold as brass, hopped closer to her paw.
eulie dawn smiled, barely there. she kept singing, soft and sure, like a ghost remembering a name.
sing me through the orchard, sing me past the stream,
where the dead don’t sleep and the lost still dream.
her tail twitched, slow, thoughtful. her eyes were far away—like she could see something no one else could.
and maybe she could.

while it is not the first time in his life dolce has wrangled with grief, it is the worst. a man once so steadfast and hard-working, now struggling to find the energy to leave his home. their home. rala had never strayed from his mind—not as he made the lonely journey back to bearclaw, not as he slept in the den they built together alone. 

there wasn't a moment that went by where her lovely memory was not haunting him. 

but the world keeps spinning, even as his feels like it's been standing still. it would not wait for him. and so he picked himself back up and got to work; the only thing he could do that wouldn't make him feel so numb. 

his morning patrol was quiet. uneventful, which was supposed to be a good thing. but the silence ate away at him; he could still hear rala's voice. sweet and steady and calling for him. pleading for him. whispering in his mind, taunting him with the fact that he could not find her. 

that he had let her down. broken the promise he'd made to be there for her through weather and storm. 

a different melody reached him, piercing through his heartache. a soft, enchanting melody. his heart lurches, and he's moving towards the song on a bated breath.

but it is not his wife. a pretty little thing, bathed in light and surrounded by birds that seemed as if they were talking to her. he steeled himself with a breath, lingered for a moment out of view until her song had ended. it didn't feel right to interrupt something so delicate. 

"mornin', miss." he rumbled as he revealed himself. hoping she didn't scare. "that was a fine song."

eulie dawn did not scare easy.
her ears flicked, a slow tilt of her head, and her song fell quiet—not abruptly, but like a leaf floating to still water. silence settled between them, warm and aware. the man before her was shadow-shouldered and deep-eyed, with grief clinging to him like fog. she knew the look. had seen it too many times in the hollers and hills.
she blinked once, slow, then smiled—soft and crooked.
ain’t mine, not really, she said, voice gentle as creekwater. just borrowed it from the wind. it been hummin’ that tune since before i could stand on all fours.
she watched him for a moment, candlelight eyes tracing the tired lines of his face. not pityin’, no. just knowin’.
you carry a ghost, she murmured. don’t gotta tell me nothin’—i seen 'im sittin' on your back like he’s still got things to say.
then, a beat of quiet, before she tipped her head and nodded toward the wildberry brush behind her. you hungry? i picked the sweet ones ‘fore the birds got 'em all.
inviting, not pushin’. just like her songs—soft, and meant to linger.

"that so? well, it's a pretty tune still." knowing now this southern belle wouldn't startle, he lumbered closer. she has a talent, one that bitterly reminds him of the woman he's lost. an easiness to her songs that has no place in a world this cruel. 

a dry huff escapes him, a humorless laugh followed by a raised brow. she was keen, too. perhaps to much for her own good. "that obvious, huh?" he rasped. he kept a respectable distance before he took a seat, watching the birds flutter and dance at her feet. as if she's some force of nature they can't help but be attracted to. 

his shoulders sag. he runs a hand over his face, a heavy sigh escaping him. as if he'd been holding his breath this entire time and has just now come up for air. "doll, i been carryin' ghosts longer than you 'probly been alive." not a boast, but the sad truth. something he'd learned to live with.

but rala's ghost...well, it weren't just that. it still felt like she was here. on the edges of his vision, just out of reach. her laughter echoing in his mind like a broken record. he'd put many of his skeletons to rest...but hers? 

he just couldn't. not yet, and maybe not ever. 

"jus' the penance o' all the shit i've done. get used to it, at some point. learn to live with it." a roll of his shoulders, followed by a few cracks of weary bones. she didn't look haunted—but everyone had their ghosts if you looked hard enough. 

when she motioned to the berry bush, he shook his head with a chuckle. "reckon i'll pass. what'chu doin' out here, anyway? other than serenadin' birds and talkin' to haunted men."

eulie dawn didn’t flinch when he moved, didn’t stir when he laughed without humor. she only blinked slow, like a cat in the sun, her body soft and boneless where she lay amid the wild tangle of grass and berry bramble. her tail flicked once, a lazy thing. her eyes followed him—somber, golden-brown, and far too knowing for how soft her voice sounded when she finally answered.
ain’t hard to spot a man bein’ followed, she said gently. especially when he walks like the ghost is bigger than he is.
she plucked another berry and rolled it between her teeth before swallowing it whole.
don’t reckon i’m here for much more than you are, eulie dawn mused, not quite smiling, not quite sad. quiet suits me. birds don’t ask questions. river don’t care what i done.
a pause. her gaze flicked toward him again, sharper now. but you ain’t done enough bad to deserve bein’ eaten alive by it. the way she said it—matter-of-fact, as if she’d measured his sins in the way he carried his shoulders, the cracks in his voice—left little room for argument.
me, i’m lookin’ for something that probably don’t exist. she shrugged, dreamlike. a place where the air don’t taste like regret. maybe a tree that don’t drop its fruit ‘fore it’s ripe.
she leaned back on her side, eyes half-lidded.
maybe i’m just waitin’ for someone to point the way.

she laid and spoke as if she had no worries, no ghosts. lounging like a sun-bathing cat. shrouded in a calmness dolce couldn't ever understand, nor would he ever obtain it. and she spoke as if she herself held the scales of judgement. 

if she had, she made the wrong choice. there were still sins that stained his soul that he couldn't fully wash away. people he's wrong, lives he'd snuffed for nothing more than a coin or two. "y'dont know halfa what i've done, darlin'." he exhaled. "reckon the devil'll make his choice when it's my time for the dirt." 

perhaps it'd be sooner than later. at least maybe then, when he's pushing up daises from six feet under, he'd see rala again. be able to say all the words stuck in his throat, or just hold her that way he once did. 

"y'might like bearclaw. the group i run with—kind, honest folk. real quiet there. think you'd fit in just fine." an offer put on the table. the valley could use her songs breathing back life into it. or perhaps, he could use them. he ain't quite sure what he wants anymore.

eulie dawn didn’t look at him right away. just plucked a berry from the stem with her teeth, slow and unbothered, as if the world could wait. only after she chewed, and swallowed, and gave the birds a glance as they fluttered from bush to branch, did she speak.
not the pack kinda girl, she said softly, a smile ghosting across her lips. ain’t never been. ain’t never tried to be.
her voice was like a creek in spring—gentle but certain. it didn’t carry weight, didn’t press down. it just was. natural as the wind.
my people are covey, she added after a beat, tilting her head toward him like she was sharing a secret. we don’t belong no where. not the way other folk do. we go where the hush leads us. stay ‘til the hush leaves.
she looked at him now, candlelit eyes gleaming just a touch.
don’t reckon bearclaw’d take to that.
another berry, another thoughtful pause.
but i thank you. truly. her tail tapped once, a soft thump in the grass. not many offer kindness with no tether.

he should of seen that coming—a free spirit like her wouldn't ever bind itself to a place or people. she wanted her songs to travel alongside her, going wherever the wind would carry her melody. a songbird in the flesh. he didn't blame her, either. she's young, untamed, and the world is hers to see. 

hers to serenade. 

"fair 'nough." he shrugged. "reckon' i wouldn't wanna settle if were still young. just don't be causing no trouble 'round the border." she may be all sweet berries and songs, but he had a feeling there was a wildness behind those half-lidded eyes of hers. 

shifting his weight, the all-present ache doesn't grip him as harshly. it's still there, but maybe a little duller. more manageable. "you're welcome. bearclaw got a habit of takin' in strays. offer'll be on the table if ya ever change your mind."

he quiets for a moment, before he's asking for her name. "what'cha called? or should i just call ya songbird."

her voice curled up like honeysuckle in the breeze, light and warm, but her chin tilted with a quiet insistence as she answered.
eulie dawn. a pause. a beat. then, with a soft smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, not eulie. eulie dawn. her name was a song. a full one. it didn’t come in halves, didn’t come trimmed short like the fraying of someone else’s memory.
she let it hang in the air a moment, then hummed low under her breath, a few wandering notes. something old and wordless, drawn from the riverbanks and midnight hollows of the covey way.
songbird’s a fine enough name, she mused, stretching out one paw lazily in the grass. but names are meant to mean somethin’. and mine was given on a moon-thick night when the frogs sang louder than the coyotes. i keep it close.
her brown eyes flicked to him, unreadable, but not unkind. i ain’t causin’ trouble. just passin’ through. trouble’s got longer legs than me.
then she looked back out to the trees, the hush of wind threading through her fur. what do they sing 'bout you?

"eulie dawn, huh?" the name suits her. pretty and whimsical, just the way she carries herself. "'s a fine name. i'm dolce." though he wondered if the songbird would stay around long enough to even remember it. it doesn't matter, not really, but...

he likes her company. calm, quiet, soft. a luxury not meant for a man like himself, but one he will selfishly indulge for a little while longer. before he knows it, he's settling down with a solid grunt. stretching scarred limbs before he's comfortable enough. letting the quiet only broken by her pretty voice and her bird-friends chatter. 

what do they sing about you? he exhales a small huff, the corners of his lips pulling into a fleeting smirk. "prolly nothin' worth listenin' to, i'd wager. songs made about men like me ain't pretty." 

he wondered then, for just a moment, if she'd spin a new tune for him. one that wasn't so dreadful and dull. "reckon' i'll stick around for a bit, if that's alright with you."

eulie dawn fluttered her lashes like the wings of the very wrens who sang at her feet, and her smile curved slow and coy when he gave her that name—dolce.
ain’t he just cute as a button, she murmured, voice like sugar steeped in moonlight. dolce. now ain’t that a sweetheart’s name, mm?
the birds nearby chirped like they were in agreement, and she shifted on her haunches just enough to stretch a forelimb, tail curling around her side. with the same air of ease she always wore, eulie dawn lifted her head to the sky, and with a breath, began to sing:
oh the handsome men, they strut through the wood,
with scars on their jaws and hearts full of soot.
they talk like thunder, walk like sin,
and every one’s trouble from outside to in.

but mama once told me, with a wink in her eye—
darlin’, sometimes storms are just songs gone awry.
so kiss ‘em if you catch ‘em, hold ‘em if you dare,
but don’t lose your soul to a boy with that stare…

she ended it with a hum, eyes still half-lidded, glancing sideways at him with a grin that could soften stone. there. now you got a song, dolce, she said, her voice light as dandelion fluff. ain’t nothin’ sayin’ it has to end sad, neither.
a beat.
you wanna stay a while, sugar, i won’t stop you. world’s too damn big to chase it alone.

"a sweetheart?" dolce huffed a low, smokey laugh. short, but not heavy. "reckon' you'd be the first to call me that, songbird." with a shake of his head, strained muscles relaxed. he sank into the soft grass with a sigh that betrayed his exhaustion. settling as the woman began to sing. her soft melody a remedy for any pain or ache; he was enraptured. like a sirens song lulling a sailor lost at sea. in awe, that the world had not snuffed her light.

he listened to every word, every lyric. found himself baring a small but genuine, crooked grin at some. others, his expression somber and quiet. stormy. her lullaby both soothed his heart and made it pulse with pain. rala used to sing to him, too, but a terrible, awful part of him admitted that her songs hadn't been so beautiful. not like this. never like this. a song that came so easy to the whimsical woman.

he wouldn't interrupt her. in fact, he wouldn't speak until long after that beautiful voice of hers quieted. and when he did, his voice was deeper. maybe just a tad softer. eyes fallen to stare at the hands that had done so much damage, his plight dancing within them. "that's the...well, it's gotta be the prettiest thing i ever did hear." simple words, but no less honest. no less raw.

he does not feel worthy of it. so convinced that he'd be condemned for his many sins, and that a man like he couldn't ever quite right his wrongs. but she was so sure that he could. and so, for a moment, maybe he'd let himself believe it. "y'got the typa voice to make a bad man believe they can have a good endin', doll." and a spirit he prays the world will not snuff.

he would stay a while. would linger in her presence, her peace, until reality would call to him again. suffer and heartache would grip him once more, but while she was around? well, it didn't hurt so bad.

eulie dawn beamed like sunrise.
we just gotta choose the good, sweetheart, she chimed, tucking her chin as she rolled to her side in the grass, the berry branch still tucked between her dainty teeth. her lashes swept slow, lazy-like, toward the man with eyes stormy as summer thunder, and her voice was as light as thistle-down. ain’t no use in carryin’ ghosts when you got music to carry instead.
she liked the way he listened—not with hunger, or desperation, but with something old in him. worn and cracked. a song could fill those places. it always had, back home. and she didn’t mind if her songs stirred pain—so long as they stirred somethin’. even sorrow meant you were still here. still hearin’. still hopin’.
we covey don't believe someone's born good 'r bad, she whispered, propping her chin on one elbow and giving him a sideways grin. it’s about choosin’ one. every mornin’. every hour. you wake up and you pick it. again and again. and the good? her voice softened, golden and sure. the good’ll find you back.
she plucked another berry from the branch and rolled it with her tongue, eyes drifting to the horizon where birds spun circles in the air. maybe next time i’ll sing somethin’ with a little more joy in it. somethin’ sweet for your sweetheart ears, she teased, nudging the compliment back at him like a stone across a pond.

the grizzled man doesn't know how to react to her cat-like stares. all heavy and pretty and stirring a feeling within him that they shouldn't. the kind of stare that makes a man weak in the knees. something he cannot afford, could not handle as he battled guilt. 

and yet, he can't look away. as if that soft song of hers put him in some type of trance. one that his heart didn't want to break from, but his common sense demanded he should. "you covey sound like good folk, then. believin' a wicked man can change." a long time ago, he would've called it naivety. but now? he isn't sure. the world always offers second chances, but what good are they when he feels like he shouldn't take it?

besides, his second chance was gone. disappeared. he doesn't believe he deserves a third.

he meets her smile with a grunt, his brows pinched. expression troubled, as it usually was these days. "but what if ya can't accept the good? what if ya don't want it?" a question he'd be left to wrestle with. the good is right there, ripe for the taking. but what if he isn't ready to take it?

what if he's already convinced he's a condemned, sinful man?

he exhales a heavy sigh, his side rising and falling with a tension that threatens to break him. "reckon' ya can sing for me whenever ya want, songbird. i'll listen." even though he shouldn't. it felt like he was betraying a woman who wasn't around anymore; breaking a promise he'd intended to keep.

she didn’t laugh—not at his question, not at his trouble, not at the way he looked like the good would burn his hands if he dared to hold it.
her smile stayed, but softer now. sadder. like she’d heard this tune before.
eulie dawn shifted, knees tucked beneath her as she leaned just slightly forward, like she was getting close enough to whisper to a wound.
then maybe you don’t take the good, she said gently, voice low like dusk wind, maybe you just… let it sit beside you a while. ‘til you’re ready.
her lashes lowered, but her gaze never left him. sharp as her words were sweet.
reckon the world don’t stop offerin’ just ‘cause you ain’t ready to receive.
then, quieter, almost to herself:
and maybe the good ain’t a prize to earn, dolce. maybe it’s just—grace.
she reached for a dried reed nearby, began twisting it slowly between her nimble fingers, letting silence curl between them like smoke.
i’ll sing for you, she promised, not ‘cause you deserve it… but because maybe you need it.
a beat.
and i always sing for those who need it.