AN: For the July Writing Contest over in Aria's Afterlife.
Oh daughter, you were born in a cage of metal and wires, and your first breath was a scream. The air snapped and chattered at you, already an enemy. Your second breath was a whimper, shut away behind a mask of glass, and the air hissed one last insult before it went clean and cool.
Life for you was a series of small rooms, always too crowded, always too loud. A moment of silence could mean death, and freedom was no comfort.
Now there is space for you to sing, to dance. You may be silent here, if you wish. This is your world, the place you started from, and we will shape ourselves to your voice. The ground stretches ever onward before you toward a sun you have only seen in dreams. It is smaller than you expected, and far away.
Our children changed their names and covered their faces and wandered through the cold lightless fathoms. You believed we would not know you if you returned, but you are ours, and we would know you even if you wore different skin. Our song should have been the first thing you heard in your cradle, but it was drowned by the maddened voices of distant stars.
Come home, we sang. Come back to the desert. It is cold where you are, and we long to warm you.
Did you hear our song, daughter? We sang for you. Your name has never been vas Normandy. You have always been ours. You have always been vas Rannoch.
Come home. Turn away from your friend. They will tell you there is still work to be done, that there is no time for rest. They do not lie, but they have never heard our song, the sweet piping notes of the sunset over the sandy hills. You hear it now, deep in the bone.
Do we disappoint you? Are we only ruins where you expected salvation? Or do you weep for those who fall from the sky, your masked family?
Weep not, daughter. There is joy in this moment. We have waited for you, and now you have all come home. Our children have come back to us as ash and smoke, but we know them. We have sung of their faces all these dry years of grief. Now we shall not weep again, for our children will never leave us.
Oh daughter, your gods were born of stone and sand, and walked with the sun on their shoulders. You have lived among the stars too long to be happy on solid ground, but we will show you the peace in our fields and rare forests.
Come home. Let pain pass through you like the tide, and rest. You have traveled far and you are weary. There is nothing left for you to do. Your friend will tell you this planet, our body, is nothing more than a burned field.
That is a lie. We are fallow land, and we have not forgotten you. When you return we shall burst forth again with life, no longer a grave but a garden, fed by the breath of our children.
Add your body to ours. Take off the mask. You do not need it here. The air is gentle. There will not be enough time for it to hurt you.
Spread your arms, daughter of Rannoch. These rocks are your mothers, the rivers your fathers. We have waited to embrace you these long centuries, oh daughter, and we will sing to you as you fall.