- Sundew Scion is a confluence. Past, present, and future flow through her as a river, and what is real matters little in the end to her, because she alone cannot draw a line and say this is this and that is that. There is meaning in all things, even in that which isn't tangible to others. Visions come to her even when she doesn't prep her mind and body, layering over her sight as easily as she draped her cloak. Her blood wets the soil, and a grove blooms in her wake. She's lost herself in her thoughts, and the walls inside her mind are permeable. She is permeable. All things that have ever touched her have left a mark, something of themselves within her to carry, whether she wills it or not.
She still hears her terran sisters' screams. In defiance. In terror. In pain. Battle cries and calls for aid echo as she turns away from their memorial. She had played them over and over in her head during the elves' flight from the old lands, almost like a mantra. A promise. A fox pokes its head out from the bushes in the grove. She knows better than to turn and look. But there were older hurts than that still haunting her as well.
The memorial stone had been visited recently. Flowers had been planted, and a small fox pelt had been placed partially over the stone. Sundew doesn't know what to think of that, other than the gift had to have been with good intentions. It still stabs at her heart to see, though, and reopens the old wound violently.
Her best friend, the princess Little Fox, is gone. Is still gone, even as old faces trickle in. Sundew had run into the woods at the news, half to look for her and half to get away. That was what they had been good at--or rather, Little Fox had always known the best places to hide. Maybe it was a princess thing. But she isn't at any of their favorite places, she isn't hiding. But she can't be gone either. Little Fox wouldn't simply-- Sundew runs, and the doe runs with her. The fox is gone. The fox is hiding again. Where could she have gone? The sun and moon are now chasing each other, and there's no sign of her. This is not their game, and the fear truly begins to settle in. The shadows stop. The Murkwood Court's dance is disrupted, and the silence is deafening. Little Fox wouldn't-- Sundew falls again, down an unseen hole, but there isn't darkness this time. Colors assault her eyes. She closes them. She opens a third.
Stillness in the graveyard. She focuses on that: the gentle sound of insects, the soil pooling with blood beneath her paws. Her emotions are conflicting with her memories are conflicting with her sight. Breathe.
. . .
Sundew knew she should be more reverent to this final marker. Knows that anything less is disrespectful and futile to vent. And yet the old feeling surges within her: abandonment. In spite of how the Murkwood Court is flourishing, this childish, petty, feeling of being left behind remains. And with it comes a rare and long-awaited anger bubbling up in the terran: at Little Fox for disappearing, at the trolls for ruining everything, and at herself for daring to speak up about either. And from there came the sin of selfishness. How much has Sundew Scion sacrificed? How much has she done for the elves and continues to do for them, in spite of their rumormongering, their shallow wants and needs, their closed-minded ways, and in the face of the happiness they flaunt? How much more does she have to do before she gets rewarded instead of just recognized? Why couldn't she wish for just one thing and have it happen? Why did she have to suffer still, quietly, privately, and alone?
Why haven't you returned?
The feelings course through her like fire, threaten to drown like water--and then they, too, pass. Tears have been falling from her face for spirits knew how long. In the gaps left within, shame pools.
Why can't I find you, my friend? Why could I save them and not you?
A second fox sniffs at the stone; she knows it to be different the way you could in any dream, without rhyme or reason but with solid confidence nonetheless. Where her eyes should have been blurred with tears, Sundew instead sees even more clearly: there was no fox pelt left at the memorial. Or perhaps this one simply took its skin back. Or perhaps it had come crawling into reality, or out of reality with her. The truth of it doesn't matter to her so much as the security of its presence.
...I am sorry, she whispers after a moment, cowed yet formal. It is bone deep to the elves, even when engaging the imaginary. After all, being imagined does not make it less real, and here she is, standing before a guest in the worst shape in months. I should not have spoken out of turn like that. My troubles are not greater than another's. Please forgive me for the state I have put myself in.
The fox sniffs at her and then at the grave. Its fur shines almost golden in the light. Sundew's heart beats again, and she takes a step forward, hoping, praying. Would you give me a sign? she asks. Please--
Grass rustles as it darts away. And without thought, without much of anything really beyond an echo of that anger that threatened to return again, Sundew Scion runs after it. The game is afoot once again, but it isn't the same. Is she chasing a ghost? A memory? Nothing at all? She has to know, and the only way to know is to catch it. The only way to know is to play, not as she always had--not passively, not knowing she was least, but to win.
And so Sundew Scion chased the fox through the blooming grove.
[ wc 1,032 ]