I paint you a picture,
but it never looks right,

The world had become something of a distant thought, an unspoken existence that lingered outside of her mind but never infiltrated it— she was left oblivious and forgotten, nestled among the ruins of a time long past. The flora grew to accommodate her pristine figure, to accept her as a shimmering piece of the landscape that might catch the eye of a weary traveler once in a millennia. Rumour spreads of the sleeping goddess deep within the woods, whose skin is translucent and heart still thrums beneath her pure shell— that at her side is an owl made purely of night, with moons so tremendous and wide that even the most fearless tremble before him.

Children decorate her slumbering body with flowers that wither and wilt upon her head with time, few make offerings and gifts to the eerie goddess and her all seeing companion, asking them for various things that she cannot provide. They ask her for luck in battle, for a miracle that cannot be given, for a healthy foal or magic to cure a disease taking over a loved one— they receive no answer, but leave confidently as though they had. On occasion a startling gust of wind or conveniently placed sun ray will inspire a series of 'thank you's, followed by tears and overwhelming glee. If only they'd known that they never were praying to a goddess, that she was no mythical deity to give praise and honour— she is something ruined, something broken and fragile and hopeless.

And so she rises before them all, with fluttering lids that have filtered shallow sunlight for far too long, her once saturated and vibrate eyes now a pale surface of colour— just another memory. There are children and elders witnessing her rise, unsteady legs and uneasy adjustment making for a peculiar awakening, ('O goddess! You finally wake! We are greatly honoured to witness such an event! Accept our offerings, O wise deity!") but she cannot look at the boys and the men— she looks at the little fillies with their twinkling eyes filled with exasperation, mouths agape at witnessing a false goddess readjust to the weight of existing once again. They bow before her but she will not acknowledge it, instead her Lior takes his place upon her back, watching carefully her followers as they watch her go. At their hooves are fruits and animals, beautiful tapestries and art created with painstaking strokes— the sophisticated works remind her too much of a land she has long forgotten, bringing back the burning in her heart that makes her want to cry. 

"Et nimium diu," her Lior coos, soft and familiar in the hollow confines of her mind. She smiles, bittersweet and almost painful— Sic.

Like a crumbling halo, the dead and dry flowers that wrap around her ears are withering away, falling to pieces as she journeys to the only place familiar to her— she longs for that familiarity of the Edge, where the mists consume the body and caress the mind, and she finds thrill in the idea of waltzing off the cliff. Ubi est Mauja? Ayelet is curious as to what has become of the Frostheart, whether he has fared well since she has been gone, or has suffered since her departure—

"Quare?" The question is simple, it shouldn't be this difficult to recall— crystalline brows knit together and her lips are sealed, because although she wishes she didn't, she remembers very well the intolerable throbbing of her heart. The false goddess remembers the ache of her soul as she was consumed by the past, launched into one painful memory after another, left to suffer the consequences of her cleared mind. She had been desperate, so much so that she rammed her temple into a rock to see if she could dispel the harsh memories— they remained. Ayelet knows well her next move, losing herself in the forest to get away from such a dense populous, curling up beneath the weeping branches of a gnarled willow tree and begging for a moment of peace. She was gifted with more than just a moment, where her body became but an empty shell with a whisper of a soul tied to it, and her Lior's fatigued mind glued to her side. How long was she there for?

She does not answer her guardian, keeping her eyes focused on the worn path before her, treading lightly through the pines until coming upon familiar earth, where the soil was damp and the mist clung to her glass skin. Her Lior screeches and trills, a call to the residents, an unnecessary announcement made to make sure they all knew of his arrival. Ayelet's ears slide back, sun bleached eyes glance back at the dark companion out of irritation. With ruffled feathers and hesitant steps, they wander further into the Edge.