Ërna ran, and ran, and ran to nowhere in particular until she fell breathlessly into a bed of flowers. Resigning to her fate, she prepared for the worst—but no such end came. Her foe was nowhere to be seen nor heard. She curled up among the blooms, afraid to move. All that remained was an eerie silence.

The late-afternoon light quietly faded as she hid beneath her cloak, desperately trying to blend into the soil beneath her. But for the first time, she cursed the deep-pink hue of her cloak for standing out so much against the greens and purples of the Grove’s natural garden. Indeed, she felt mocked by Gälenor, for the field she found herself in was filled with luamýr.

She knew nothing about them beyond their purple hue; but that alone was enough to torment her traumatized mind, for they were the same shade of purple as Valýría’s eyes. Thus to Ërna, who knew nothing of their calming properties, they seemed instead like countless eyes watching her with silent fury and disdain. The land itself turned against her.

It wasn’t fair.

She held nothing but love and admiration for Ëolna’s Garden in her heart; she loved the Stars of the Earth far more than those twinkling in Rëálna’s Garden above. Gälenor, the greatest grove in Älthren, was always idealized in her mind, despite the cruel propaganda spread by her father, as a place where seeds and spirits flourished. That still seemed true, but she was woefully unprepared for the true darkness within its heart: a hatred of her kindred.

It really wasn’t fair.

She wholeheartedly rejected her father’s version of Gälenor. She had always sided her her banished mother, who loved both the land and light. And yet, despite that, she was still punished and blamed for the atrocities and corrupted ideals of her kingdom.

But the worst injustice of all? She was as unwanted as a weed in both gardens. In Pelría, she was ridiculed for holding back the ‘progress’ of her people in the name of nature’s preservation. In Gälenor, she was rejected as cinder eager to combust into an all-consuming fire bent on clearing the way for the very ‘progress’ she sought to keep in check. 

It was cruel.

As such thoughts consumed Ërna’s mind, the light of day faded away. The trauma of dawn was diminishing, but now the stars of night, beloved by her father and people, seemed to peer down upon her with continued, relentless disapproval. The heavens themselves turned against her, as well. And so, succumbing to despair, cold wind slowly crept into Ërna’s wounded heart. Sleep, however restless, was her only solace.

“I am here.”

A crystal-like voice reached Ërna in her dream. It  was so frail it seemed that it would shatter at any moment; and indeed, it was already splintering.

“My caress is cold…but I am here.”

It came again, heavy with sorrow. Wrapping itself around Ërna like a weighted blanket, her whole world was enveloped in a cold, dense fog. She couldn’t see who the voice belonged to, but she knew it. Deep down, she knew that voice. All life did, and yet…

“I have always been with you. I am always guiding you. And though I have been forgotten, I will always love you.”

A pale, silver-blue light shimmered in that sea of darkness before the dream faded with the fall of a single a tear.