Ama
Ama pushed her way through the overgrown path, long leafy tentacles reaching out to snag her skin as she twisted through. In a matter of weeks the mountain path had disappeared under a bloated sea of over-eager plants.
Ama vividly remembered all the times she had walked this path to the "holy" lady's cave, the food in her basket, her eyes wide with excitement, her whole self filled with anticipation of seeing the exiled "wise" woman. How she had waited and waited to catch just one glimpse of the lady's enchanted daughter.
And then, how she'd met that fierce boy who was missing two fingers, but had a knife to cut through worlds. How together they had saved that enchanted street urchin princess, from her wicked, beautiful mother; the horrible lying woman whose daemon ripped apart live bats for the fun of it.
No one would ever believe her if she told them. So she didn't, locking it away in her mind until she was too lonely for words. And then, spreading the memories out around her like bits of a colourful jigsaw puzzle, she'd look them over fondly, wishing she could see the puzzle in full. How beautiful it would be. Lovely and sad and forever weeping silver tears for the human race; a race so full of itself, and it version of the world, that it couldn't cope with the beauty around it. Opting instead for destruction, destruction of all the beautiful things it would never see, of all the feelings it would never know, and all the music it would never hear. And how the worlds wept.
There were some things, thought Ama, that could never be fixed or rewritten. There were some things that no magic or love or miracle or repentance could bring back. No matter how hard anyone tried. There were some things that everyone noticed, and when they died, they were cried for and talked about for centuries after. These were always the important things, the things that really mattered.
But there were some things that died without anyone knowing, just vanishing one day, everyone feeling the loss, without knowing why. And who cried for these things? These things no one noticed or cared for. Who would remember them, when they had all gone?
Ama pushed her way through the overgrown path. In a matter of weeks the mountain path had disappeared under a bloated sea of over-eager plants.
Ama pushed her way through the overgrown path, long leafy tentacles reaching out to snag her skin as she twisted through. In a matter of weeks the mountain path had disappeared under a bloated sea of over-eager plants.
Ama vividly remembered all the times she had walked this path to the "holy" lady's cave, the food in her basket, her eyes wide with excitement, her whole self filled with anticipation of seeing the exiled "wise" woman. How she had waited and waited to catch just one glimpse of the lady's enchanted daughter.
And then, how she'd met that fierce boy who was missing two fingers, but had a knife to cut through worlds. How together they had saved that enchanted street urchin princess, from her wicked, beautiful mother; the horrible lying woman whose daemon ripped apart live bats for the fun of it.
No one would ever believe her if she told them. So she didn't, locking it away in her mind until she was too lonely for words. And then, spreading the memories out around her like bits of a colourful jigsaw puzzle, she'd look them over fondly, wishing she could see the puzzle in full. How beautiful it would be. Lovely and sad and forever weeping silver tears for the human race; a race so full of itself, and it version of the world, that it couldn't cope with the beauty around it. Opting instead for destruction, destruction of all the beautiful things it would never see, of all the feelings it would never know, and all the music it would never hear. And how the worlds wept.
There were some things, thought Ama, that could never be fixed or rewritten. There were some things that no magic or love or miracle or repentance could bring back. No matter how hard anyone tried. There were some things that everyone noticed, and when they died, they were cried for and talked about for centuries after. These were always the important things, the things that really mattered.
But there were some things that died without anyone knowing, just vanishing one day, everyone feeling the loss, without knowing why. And who cried for these things? These things no one noticed or cared for. Who would remember them, when they had all gone?
Ama pushed her way through the overgrown path. In a matter of weeks the mountain path had disappeared under a bloated sea of over-eager plants.