[Helena Adams has died more times than she could ever count. the number is a mountain, her own corpse a constant companion. and here, where it is cold and empty, her mind says it is an endless winter, ice and emptiness and suspended animation. no escape, it wants her to think there is no escape. this place wants to send them into a dungeon with no sound, no feeling, nothing but endless absence.
but she cannot give in. she must keep running. she's always running. because one day, they'll be free. one day there will be a home. one day one of her will make it home, back to her father, back to her mother's garden, back to where the wind softly rustles the grass and the earth is sun warmed and everything is familiar, loved. and one of her must venture far, across oceans and skies, past stars and distant unknowns, to fulfill a promise born of love, to descend into even death to find a soul again. and one of her must weave a story into poetry and try for what was thought to be beyond her, heart full and waiting, crowned with roses and kisses as cool as a breeze in summer.
there is so much to do. there is so much to still live for. there are so many people who still hold out their hands. there are stories to write and people to meet and places to go and songs to dance to and love, so much love, enough that it aches in its abundance.
the noise and the fear and the pain drift away, and all she hears is a sound like a faraway train, distant and soothing as a lullaby. all she feels are strong arms keeping her near, choosing her. an embrace layered of everyone she loves, her arms open and theirs ready to take her up on it.
the world is so, so beautiful. there is so much to delight in. there is so much to cherish. there are many, many other Helenas who need to experience this, who must persist beyond now.
we will live, she says, calm and defiant to the laws of reality. if there are rips, they will be sewn and mended. if things feel shaky, they will be reinforced, and held up. but they will persist, stubborn and hopeful and stumbling, perfect in imperfection.
they will live. this has always been so. one realm can't change that.]
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but she cannot give in. she must keep running. she's always running. because one day, they'll be free. one day there will be a home. one day one of her will make it home, back to her father, back to her mother's garden, back to where the wind softly rustles the grass and the earth is sun warmed and everything is familiar, loved. and one of her must venture far, across oceans and skies, past stars and distant unknowns, to fulfill a promise born of love, to descend into even death to find a soul again. and one of her must weave a story into poetry and try for what was thought to be beyond her, heart full and waiting, crowned with roses and kisses as cool as a breeze in summer.
there is so much to do. there is so much to still live for. there are so many people who still hold out their hands. there are stories to write and people to meet and places to go and songs to dance to and love, so much love, enough that it aches in its abundance.
the noise and the fear and the pain drift away, and all she hears is a sound like a faraway train, distant and soothing as a lullaby. all she feels are strong arms keeping her near, choosing her. an embrace layered of everyone she loves, her arms open and theirs ready to take her up on it.
the world is so, so beautiful. there is so much to delight in. there is so much to cherish. there are many, many other Helenas who need to experience this, who must persist beyond now.
we will live, she says, calm and defiant to the laws of reality. if there are rips, they will be sewn and mended. if things feel shaky, they will be reinforced, and held up. but they will persist, stubborn and hopeful and stumbling, perfect in imperfection.
they will live. this has always been so. one realm can't change that.]