Goodbye Little LightsAlistair had watched her withdraw over the months, felt her slipping further and further away.
It made him think of when he was a much younger boy, trying to catch the spring-fluff seeds in his clumsy hands. Try as he might to get close to capturing them, the wind would come along and leave his hands splayed and hollow.
So when he had finally found her wandering the lowest halls within the castle murmuring to herself, touching the walls as if she didn't recognize them anymore .Everything he'd carefully planned on saying fled on a cruel wash of worry.
She looked as translucent pale as she had when he'd first set eyes on her in Ostragar (which seemed like his whole life away from now). She was beginning to sun-darken, wasn't she? His memory said she was--and now she was see-through pale. He could see the delicate blue spidering veins if he really wanted to think about, along her neck and jaw. And she was thin. Thin and ethereal as if all i
Withering IDenerim's castle was full of ghosts. She kept seeing them in the flickering fires of torches aligning stone walls at night.
Here inside this room, Morrigan's golden eyes had desperately beseeched her to not be foolish. The wind from a howling storm that brought no rain had keened eerily through wood and brick alike, making the eve before the battle somehow--so much more appropriate. She remembered thinking that even the wind mourned what was what is, and what might become.
Torches in their sconces stuttered, flickered and hissed as they burned their oil sending meandering coils of black into the air. The torches stained the walls every night and every morning these stains would be scrubbed away. Teams of meek-faced elves and human servants alike all scuttled bleary eyed each morning to dutifully scrub; making the hollow-at-night-castle not so dark. Not so foreboding.
Not so filled with memories.
In death, sacrifice.
The words clung to her in these idle days
Catch Myself - NaPoWriMo 3I have missed me,
since I was twelve.
When there were dragons
in the lawn clippings,
fairies in my grandmother's petunias.
I rumpled myself into her long gowns, things she wore when
she was young and smiling in black and white.
I wore them over pavement, was always barefoot
in the evening grass, orange-tinted by falling sun.
My toes splayed in its coolness and I imagined
roots forever, crawling, growing, twisting
into another world.
A world where there were no drunks,
and family didn't scream at one another and
little girls weren't picked on for being fat
mother and father were kings and queens and
happy and in love and
no one cried.
No one cried.
I have missed me,
I have no more gowns.
My lawn is a lawn is a lawn and I
Handy Tales - NaPoWriMo 2A blue nook, brown speckled forest,
a hill bent sideways with age.
Fissures break long lines,
ending in half-moons painted pale pink or sheer.
My grandmothers hands.
As a child they told me stories:
loving, laughing, weeping, learning,
sewing, cooking, sorrow and joy.
I listened to them every night
as she tucked me in.