The desert is her home, furnished with the dusty wind, with the corpses of the lost and forgotten, with the graves of her ancestors and her mother and her people. Carpeted in sand and blood and cracking earth—perpetually dying of a deep thirst she sometimes feels within herself—she treads over it barefoot. She likes the feel of the sun on her skin, and can almost get used to the grime in her throat and the ache in her heart. It's not so bad, really, once you get the hang of it. She loves the desert, and she can't ever dream of leaving it.
The forest is her home, furnished with new-fallen spring leaves, with the shed blossoms of the cherry trees, with the graves of the man she loves and his parents and his people. Carpeted in moss and rich earth—perpetually leaking moisture like her eyes do sometimes—she used tread over it barefoot with him. She likes the feel of cool air on her skin, and misses the feeling of raindrops slipping into her eyes and the fullness in her heart. It's not so bad, really, once you get the hang of it. She loves the forest, but can't even think of ever going back.
She tells her brother one day. I feel lost, she whispers. He's the only one who can understand the hollow feeling in her chest, and while he doesn't quite know how to comfort her, he listens to everything she says.
I know, he tells her back.
When she falls in battle—her only failed mission since that one in Leaf—he gives her the proper rites and has her body burned.
When he opens the urn, the wind picks up her ashes and scatters them. Over the desert, and over the forest, and over the grave of the man she once loved.
He hopes, sincerely, that she has found her way.
An old 31 days challenge. Standard disclaimer here.