#nobody needs this publicly i just ended up going off bc of whitherwanderer

[shroudandsands]

Prompt #11: Once Bitten, Twice Shy

She exhaled into her hands, cold breath doing little to warm her in the autumn gloam. She’d discarded her claws. They sat on the windowsill, reflecting what little light still glinted from the distant oil lamps. The only thing left on a cloudy, tired night.

The trees surrounding her home shuddered in time with the beginnings of a chill wind. She shrugged her shoulders, bringing the robe she’d donned to press against her ears. Again she exhaled into her hands. It was all she could do as she waited out the final bells of the night. As she listened to the last few cries of summer vilekin dotting the world before they’d quiet and cede their lives to the fallen, dying leaves. Another breath. She settled into a chair on her balcony. More an alcove- large enough for a chair. For a table. For her to sit, legs slightly outstretched. But instead she was curled in the wicker rocking chair, her legs folded underneath her. She watched as clouds rolled like ocean waves. And she breathed. In and out. In and out. In another life she’d been interrupted many times in a moment like this. By the trudging of boots. Or the sudden arrival of ember-burnt and summery footsteps. Both had brought her some great joys. Brought her some subdued strength. Knowing that, if she so needed, they would arrive at this moment. But that was another life. A lifetime ago, it felt. She was a stranger to herself, then. She stuffed her hands under her arms. It didn’t come to her as often, now, as it used to. The wondering. The thought that knocked on her door much like she used to- randomly, loudly, and when she least expected it. But that was over, now. Thankfully... She wasn’t sure if that was the right sentiment. To be thankful would mean she was glad it stopped. Or that she was distraught by the occurrence. In reality it was much harder to name.

The grief that used to settle like a brick in her pocket. The one that used to startle her into noticing it when she was reaching for something else. It hadn’t shrunk. It hadn’t grown. It hadn’t become a part of her. No. No. One evening, sitting here, awaiting that same moment of recollection to suddenly join her in her solace. She realized it wasn’t coming. She thumbed the ring she always wore and she realized it wasn’t waiting for her out in the late night. Was it gone? Had it gone somewhere else? Or did it find no joy in calling upon her anymore? She wasn’t sure. She exhaled into her hands. She wondered.

A flash of deep-brown, wilder spring and a touch of a hand. Was she thankful? She remembered the last time she reached for something and found that brick. As she reached out for her cane and found it already in her hands- given to her. When was the last time? Summer flickered across her senses before it was thoroughly swept aside by its kinder kin. Thoroughly beaten aside by something different. The brick of her grief crumbled into a dust she couldn’t possibly keep, destroyed by a moment so insignificant so as to be mundane. Why her? Why this? And why did it seem to ruin the solace of the night?

Any other would be glad. Joyous. This was the sign. This was the freedom. No more would her memory force itself upon her in the middle of the night. No longer would it knock at her door. No longer would it find her in her quiet moments. No longer would it weigh down as stone. But... Rakaso hadn’t wanted to escape from the bricks she had laid down. The path she’d paved with each moment of recollection. The fortress she had made from them. It strengthened her. It had forced aside the weakness she had been before. The weak, heedless woman who lacked resolve. Who lacked everything she needed to make her life worth living. She had grown from paving her path. A sword, forged from herself. A resolve, forged from herself. A steely armor of ice, forged from herself. All of her remade. All of her protected. Every tiny piece examined, removed, changed, torn. All in service of this. All by the grace of her memory. But she had no more bricks to lay. No more memories to return to. Nothing to build her walls. Why?

She inhaled the cold air until it pierced her lungs in winter-touched pain.

Spring was rotting her. In all of her reckless haste, leaving her defenseless, letting the roots and gentle breeze break in to her carefully sealed walls and paths. It was only when her head was in her hands that she could see the bricks pushed apart by weeds between, by spring growth, by a renewed call. Oh, this heedless Spring was rotting her. She could feel the warmth in her palms.

She couldn’t do this again.