Ronan
debussy.
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[/div]Ash follows a trail of broken glass through the city of mummified remains and falling skies where the soot decorates the air like the morning before Adar. Winter. It lands on her eyelashes and buries in her clothes and fades into her hair as snow would, and the soot is a welcomed feeling against the heat of the city, still fresh from it's wounds.
The trail of glass continues off the main road and Ash follows it. Follows it all the way to the end of the lane, 3 RUE D'GARRON, and at the end is a cottage with a half-collapsed roof. The cottage is also missing all it's windows, and its no doubt the culprit of the glass trail. Ash walks across the serrated shards to the front door and gives the briefest of knocks. She knows there's no one inside, but she was raised with polity and integrity and faith. After all these years, it's still ingrained in her: please, thank you, I apologise, sir, and ma'am- and habits are hard to break. She knocks again and when no one answers, Ash turns the knob and steps forward and through.
Between one stride and the next, dreary Glewick City became elegant Annas. The charred floorboards of gave way to bright fields of poppies and honeyed air, and the groaning of timber was replaced by the sound of bells and nine figures wearing red veils and silver masks and looking throughly regal. Ash was wearing a red veil and silver mask, too, and hers was the face of leaves growing from her eyes. The last figure was a woman in a red ballroom gown holding a bushel of poppies and wearing a crown of thorns. She was imposing as she was commanding.
And Ash took a step forward, the veils of red and poppies evaporating into the comfortless world again. The wash-out world of Glewick City, just as it became elegant Annas.
Ash stands alone in the cottage with a broken bed and smashed plates and silverware, and her forehead is lined with confusion. Strange. Ash had no bad memories, no bad dreams, nothing that haunted her at night when she slept. An anomaly to be sure, but Ash has learned to move on. Not to forgive and forget, but to move on. Time heals all wounds. To her, the dream of Annas was a scene out of time. Something that happened too long ago for her to attach emotion to, except names. Annas Field.
Ash took another step into the cottage and felt her foot kick something. A book. She picks it up and dusts the soot off the cover to reveal a half-burnt picture of a dryad reaching for the water and it was pretty. A children’s book, maybe. A fairytale of a dryad and something else. Children's books were pieces of knowledge, too; however odd it may be. They were made from war and suffering- allegories of history and romanticised into small morals and good vs. evil narratives. In the end, children's books were kindness in a dark world. Something to hold onto like a flicker of light in a basement. Ash opened the book to the first page only to discover it was too burnt to be legible. She flipped to the next page and found another picture in it, albeit, a half-burnt of a dryad with camellias in her hair. The rest of the book was the same: burnt, ineligible, and always a dryad.
Ash pictured the previous owner picking flowers in the plains outside Glewick City and imitating the dryad, and for that, she wanted to know the fairytale. She willed the faded words to appear, but they stayed the same, half-letters and sentences unable to be pieced together.
The book was tucked away in a pocket of her tailcoat and she took one last look at the cottage, still the same- dilapidated and broken. Ash took another step inwards, willing another memory of Annas to appear- if only for a moment, and she longed to wear her red veil and silver mask again, but it never came. Only the sound of silence and soot falling before her eyes. So with dream gone, Ash turns to leave the cottage and closes the door with a Click.
The trail of glass continues off the main road and Ash follows it. Follows it all the way to the end of the lane, 3 RUE D'GARRON, and at the end is a cottage with a half-collapsed roof. The cottage is also missing all it's windows, and its no doubt the culprit of the glass trail. Ash walks across the serrated shards to the front door and gives the briefest of knocks. She knows there's no one inside, but she was raised with polity and integrity and faith. After all these years, it's still ingrained in her: please, thank you, I apologise, sir, and ma'am- and habits are hard to break. She knocks again and when no one answers, Ash turns the knob and steps forward and through.
Between one stride and the next, dreary Glewick City became elegant Annas. The charred floorboards of gave way to bright fields of poppies and honeyed air, and the groaning of timber was replaced by the sound of bells and nine figures wearing red veils and silver masks and looking throughly regal. Ash was wearing a red veil and silver mask, too, and hers was the face of leaves growing from her eyes. The last figure was a woman in a red ballroom gown holding a bushel of poppies and wearing a crown of thorns. She was imposing as she was commanding.
And Ash took a step forward, the veils of red and poppies evaporating into the comfortless world again. The wash-out world of Glewick City, just as it became elegant Annas.
Ash stands alone in the cottage with a broken bed and smashed plates and silverware, and her forehead is lined with confusion. Strange. Ash had no bad memories, no bad dreams, nothing that haunted her at night when she slept. An anomaly to be sure, but Ash has learned to move on. Not to forgive and forget, but to move on. Time heals all wounds. To her, the dream of Annas was a scene out of time. Something that happened too long ago for her to attach emotion to, except names. Annas Field.
Ash took another step into the cottage and felt her foot kick something. A book. She picks it up and dusts the soot off the cover to reveal a half-burnt picture of a dryad reaching for the water and it was pretty. A children’s book, maybe. A fairytale of a dryad and something else. Children's books were pieces of knowledge, too; however odd it may be. They were made from war and suffering- allegories of history and romanticised into small morals and good vs. evil narratives. In the end, children's books were kindness in a dark world. Something to hold onto like a flicker of light in a basement. Ash opened the book to the first page only to discover it was too burnt to be legible. She flipped to the next page and found another picture in it, albeit, a half-burnt of a dryad with camellias in her hair. The rest of the book was the same: burnt, ineligible, and always a dryad.
Ash pictured the previous owner picking flowers in the plains outside Glewick City and imitating the dryad, and for that, she wanted to know the fairytale. She willed the faded words to appear, but they stayed the same, half-letters and sentences unable to be pieced together.
The book was tucked away in a pocket of her tailcoat and she took one last look at the cottage, still the same- dilapidated and broken. Ash took another step inwards, willing another memory of Annas to appear- if only for a moment, and she longed to wear her red veil and silver mask again, but it never came. Only the sound of silence and soot falling before her eyes. So with dream gone, Ash turns to leave the cottage and closes the door with a Click.
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