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n o e
Where will you run to, little girl?
Heavy breathing and rapid footfalls are the only sounds to answer the silence. The rain child can give no answers, for she no longer knows the questions, the voices, the words. Once she might have laughed at the question, her voice a song of pattering droplets, silver bells. She might have turned it into a challenge (Where won't I run?) or a question of faith (Wherever the Gods of Sky and Stars lead). She would have heard the question and seen in it potential, seen it as the entire world in a brand new song, but today she cannot not hear songs or see life. She is deaf, blind, and mute, caught in a world that does not extend past her nose - cannot, so long as she is compelled to run.
It has been three days, and Noe is exhausted, but still the girl runs.
Sometimes she stops, compelled by the way her body aches, furious, refusing to move any more. In these fleeting moments she calls to her gods, humming a hymn on quivering lips and waiting for the rain to envelop her. She wears it like a shield, the last remnant of a priestess' robes, her body damp but warm, so warm, for the rain of her Gods cannot chill the girl. Everything else is monochrome, bland. The trees are streaks of black in her periphery; the grass is ash in Noe's mouth. Birdsong rings and it's out of tune. Only the rain is real or kind, and in her rare, stolen moments of stillness, the girl wears it like a second skin.
This time she stops beside a stream, taking comfort in its steady flow, dropping her head to inhale the cool water and quiet the fire that burns in her bones. It is dusk, nearly dark, and she has run since daybreak with few pauses for rest. She is tired, so tired, every muscle of her body screaming in pain, screaming a cacophony which drowns out the sound of suffering that haunts her steps. Noe ignores the screaming, ignores the way her joints protest, and lowers herself onto the sparse grass. Overhead, stars are twinkling into view, and she cranes her neck to catch sight of them. They are the same stars, her stars, and she takes comfort in the thought that her Gods are with her, even here, even now.
Even after what she has done.
The sun comes down; a sickle moon rises; the girl grows still, her fluttering heart now a steady beat. In the silence that prevails her voice rises, a quiet chord of a processional hymn rising from her inky lips. It's a child's tune, one learned by all the foals in her village, but on the rain girl's lips it's a haunting melody, a vibrato line of alto notes meant for no audience but the whispering trees. Most of the worlds are hummed, obstructed, but a single verse slides out over her tongue.
"At dawn the stars fall into the sea
I'll wait for You to come back to me."
As she sings, a blanket of mist drifts through the area, following the progression of chords and weaving among the tress. It encompasses the girl, a warm embrace of the gift from her Gods, a reminder that, if she has nothing else, at least she still has this.
She continues to hum in the silent night, her honey eyes heavy as she watches the stars.
Heavy breathing and rapid footfalls are the only sounds to answer the silence. The rain child can give no answers, for she no longer knows the questions, the voices, the words. Once she might have laughed at the question, her voice a song of pattering droplets, silver bells. She might have turned it into a challenge (Where won't I run?) or a question of faith (Wherever the Gods of Sky and Stars lead). She would have heard the question and seen in it potential, seen it as the entire world in a brand new song, but today she cannot not hear songs or see life. She is deaf, blind, and mute, caught in a world that does not extend past her nose - cannot, so long as she is compelled to run.
It has been three days, and Noe is exhausted, but still the girl runs.
Sometimes she stops, compelled by the way her body aches, furious, refusing to move any more. In these fleeting moments she calls to her gods, humming a hymn on quivering lips and waiting for the rain to envelop her. She wears it like a shield, the last remnant of a priestess' robes, her body damp but warm, so warm, for the rain of her Gods cannot chill the girl. Everything else is monochrome, bland. The trees are streaks of black in her periphery; the grass is ash in Noe's mouth. Birdsong rings and it's out of tune. Only the rain is real or kind, and in her rare, stolen moments of stillness, the girl wears it like a second skin.
This time she stops beside a stream, taking comfort in its steady flow, dropping her head to inhale the cool water and quiet the fire that burns in her bones. It is dusk, nearly dark, and she has run since daybreak with few pauses for rest. She is tired, so tired, every muscle of her body screaming in pain, screaming a cacophony which drowns out the sound of suffering that haunts her steps. Noe ignores the screaming, ignores the way her joints protest, and lowers herself onto the sparse grass. Overhead, stars are twinkling into view, and she cranes her neck to catch sight of them. They are the same stars, her stars, and she takes comfort in the thought that her Gods are with her, even here, even now.
Even after what she has done.
The sun comes down; a sickle moon rises; the girl grows still, her fluttering heart now a steady beat. In the silence that prevails her voice rises, a quiet chord of a processional hymn rising from her inky lips. It's a child's tune, one learned by all the foals in her village, but on the rain girl's lips it's a haunting melody, a vibrato line of alto notes meant for no audience but the whispering trees. Most of the worlds are hummed, obstructed, but a single verse slides out over her tongue.
"At dawn the stars fall into the sea
I'll wait for You to come back to me."
As she sings, a blanket of mist drifts through the area, following the progression of chords and weaving among the tress. It encompasses the girl, a warm embrace of the gift from her Gods, a reminder that, if she has nothing else, at least she still has this.
She continues to hum in the silent night, her honey eyes heavy as she watches the stars.
