you pour the water —
Solitude suits her. Silence suits her. She wraps herself in it, withdrawing further and further from those she calls home. She does not seek out the gentle, reassuring touches of her mother. She does not seek out the comforting echo of her twin. She does all she can to avoid the sharp, scrutinizing gaze of her father. She withdraws, like a rose whose petals first brush up against winter. She folds in on herself, pulling back all the pieces until she is carefully enclosed, until there is nothing left vulnerable; she is a vault and all her secrets remain guarded.
In the silence, she watches Beqanna change. She watches dust settle. She watches lands with deep roots find their way here and then leave. She watches it all from the distance she seems safe and does not venture forth. There is trust that her family will be fine; they have certainly experienced both better and worse without any intervention from her before. So there is no guilt in her black heart. Only satisfaction that she has swallowed her own self-inflicted poison. That she has taken her own vile tonic and no one else need suffer her bitter tongue.
But all things end.
Even her solitude.
There is no grand change (although she would be a fool to have missed the changes sweeping across Beqanna once more). There is no defining moment. One morning she simply opens her gold eyes and exhales, something deflating in her chest and pushing her forward. And so she does. Unwillingly at first and then begrudgingly. She unfolds her limbs, now long and slender, and she shakes the time from her coat, sending a small plume of it into the air. Her wings unfold around her and she wraps them tightly to her sides, a small comfort if any.
And without further hesitation, she moves forward—back to civilization, back to her family, back to life.
It is the noise, at first, that surprises her. She nearly yanks back in surprise, the sound deafening after so long sequestered in the silence. She sets her teeth against it, a muscle jumping in her jaw, and focuses on taking long, even breaths. Focuses on drowning out the din of conversation. The din of emotions that wash up against a mind nearly defenseless in its disuse.
But, like the silence, this too settles. She becomes more accustomed the further she walks until it becomes a hum instead of a scream. She closes her eyes to settle herself again and when she opens, she realizes that she has no idea where she is or where she’s gone.
She cannot decide if she likes such a thing.
— I would haul the stones
