(no subject)
She did not remember being huddled in a corner, breathing air, coughing ash, or the fire lashing at her face. Nor did she remember intermittent muffled cries from the other corner, where sister was being smothered by a jerking, grunting blue-robe. She would have wanted the whole time for sister to stop flailing and pretend to be dead so the blue-robe would leave. The next day, sister would have been slouched at the bottom of the ravine. Adara would have asked “Sister? Sister? Sister, say something! Sister?” to no avail as sister gawked at the forest floor and ignored her.
All this could be likened to a story, for Adara did not feel her heart tugged on by the memory, nor was there trauma to whip her heart into a run.
Adara, my sweet, you remember, yet you shed no tears.
I do remember, father, I do, she replies.
She recalled the quartet playing out in the loggia and the rush of the viol in its solo. It was chillingly beautiful, and consequently, she felt tears accumulating and hot in her eyes.
“Oh, my dearest sister…”
Dareshar held her head to him and stroked her hair affectionately. “Yes, you do remember. It was a druid who did that to her.”
She nodded, and at mention of druids, pushed herself out of his embrace. She beat her hands against the stone ledge they sat on. There came a pain that made her hit the stone harder. Now, she no longer wished to speak with father. She snatched up her walking stick and split it over her leg. She wished it be the arm of a druid. But for now, the splitting of wood would suffice.
“Please control yourself,” he urged, but she could see he was saying it through an amused smile.
“I no longer wish to learn Memories today, father.”
She turned and stomped away. When she reached the thin dark doors out of the garden, she kicked and pounded on them before opening them to go indoors.
“Adara, I am not your-,”