Syrena

let the water take me

The chill in the air still lingered, but it wasn’t cold as it had been. There were promises of spring in the Falls now, bits of green peaking out here and there. She’d spent some time in the Threshold during Frostfall, trying to get out of her bitter cold home, but largly, she’d actually stayed in the Falls doing work. What a strange concept, to be busy. Meeting members of the herds who’s names she mostly remembers (progress), handling visits from the Wise One ranks of other herds, learning stories.

It almost feels like too long since she’s been here. Too long, likely, since anyone in the Falls has crossed into the forest of beginnings. Though she honestly doesn’t have a clue if that thought is true or not. For all she knows there are members she’s not yet met that spend half their time here. It’s entirely possible, but she sticks to assuming they don’t come.

So today, she goes. There’s no one lurking on the borders of the Falls, and she’s tired of learning names for the moment, so the walk at least to the Threshold gives her some time to be alone. It is not a long enough walk today. She could use more time by herself, with the birds for company and nothing more. Really, she could use time by the sea with the waves and wind and the salt air. But she finds that she has less and less time for that.

But one mare had known her name. Had known she was the Storyteller of the Falls. It was such a small victory. But it was a victory. It was proof that at least some of this toiling was paying off.

There’s still plenty of snow in the Threshold, but it’s melting away at least, leaving patches of the dead ground exposed below. Soon Helovia would be green and beautiful for a nice little period of time before turning itself in Hades. She walks along, already dreading Tallsun and trying not to think about it – seriously, it’s not even quite Birdsong – when she spots a mare that look like a hot mess. Sweat clings to the mare’s red coat. Syrena could be red too, so this beautiful but hot mess of a mare doesn’t make Syrena jealous for once. Not that Syrena is red now – no, she’s mostly gray except for where the snow hits her legs, turning her skin to swirls of blue and purple.

“Are you okay?” she asks, though there’s no concern in that question. As always, her sing-song voice holds no emotion, though really, someone should be proud she noticed enough to ask the mare if she was alright. Not that Syrena knows a damn thing what to do about it, but they have healers in the Falls or hell, any herd, that would know. She can just take the mare to a healer.

"words"