Wednesday, late morning, June 9
The garden of The Dormouse
I should not be awake. I should still be in bed sleeping, like Rose is. Romana is here, I could go back to bed. I may give into that urge. After all, I spent half the night sitting on this very bench, singing to the snow and stars.
Rose went to bed easily last night, and I should have followed... but I could only stare out the window at the snow, glinting in my yard from the soft glow of the lamp. Before I could think better of it, I was outside. Wrapped in my comforter, I sat for hours under my willow, staring up at the crystal clear sky. I also turned on the faerie lights, glad to see they still worked. There I sat, the stars and the lights glimmering above me, the world's noise muted by a blanket of snow. And then I sang... quietly at first. Letting my voice merge with the quiet tones, Gabriel's Message, White Christmas, I'll be home for Christmas, lovely and low songs. As the music swelled, so did my voice. I sang Silent Night; first in English, then switching to the Gaelic my Grandmother taught me. My soul swelling with joy, I continued to O Holy Night, my voice spiralling to the stars and next to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy!
O, star of wonder, star of night,
Star with royal beauty bright,----
With that, my voice locked in my throat. Star, my star, my fallen...
The stars shone that night too, as the snow lay on the grown, pure and crisp and even. The faerie lights glimmered in the trees, and my heart swelled, and then stopped.
With a suddenly heavy heart and my voice fled, I went back inside and curled up in my bed; alone and suddenly cold. I fell asleep curled in that bloodstained ruin of a comforter.
And woke too early to sunshine, birds singing and warm air. Rose woke up, and seemed just as confused as I. She fed, I ate, we spent some time together, then she went down for her first nap. Again, I ventured outside. The roses seem none the worse for wear, the blooms opening to red and pink and white and peach. No more black, save one small bush near the back of the property. I will probably never have the black ones again save that one shoot. The grass is damp, and the air feels humid. It feels like it should, like early June. With a sigh, I drop back on to the bench under my tree, and draw my knees up to my chest. The melancholy I went to bed with hasn't left yet, and it slips past my lips as only it can sometimes.
Long ago, in someone else's lifetime
Someone with my name, who looked a lot like me
Came to know A man and made a promise
He only had to say, and that's where she would be.
Lately although the feelings run just as deep
The vows that she made has grown so difficult to keep
And yet I wish it wasn't so
Will he miss me if I go?
I doubt that very highly.
So why do I feel like I am failing him for feeling this way?
(Open to Iblis and Tez, hell; anyone else at this point)