AN ENDING TO WHAT HAS BECOME.
It starts with a story.
Small hands reaching for Mother’s nightgown, fingers curling into the soft fabric as Sharena presses her face into her chest; delight in the form of muffled laughter. “Mama,” she says, a voice hidden by the gown, “read us a bedtime story!” Mother hears her and laughs. An agreement in the way she gently pulls Sharena from her body and holds her up—a hand to her head while the other keeps her steady.
It starts with pillows in disarray and joy.
Joy in the lack of emptiness of their room. Not shared, no, but always together. Alfonse settles into bed first—hands in his lap as he sits with a head held high. High enough for Sharena to miss her attempt at grabbing his face and pushing his cheeks together, determined to pull a smile from him even though their parents sit not too far away. He moves away and mutters something she can’t hear—Father picks her up and she giggles, small feet kicking at the air as Mother jokingly scolds them both for their energy; It’s bedtime and her loves need to rest.
She’s placed next to Alfonse and, though the bed is not hers and the space is not hers, he raises an arm and allows her to crawl close to him. Her cheek pressed against his shirt as the bear she holds lies victim to the crushing embrace that falls onto it. Mother smiles ( Gentle. Loving. She loves them. Oh so much. ) and raises the book up to the two children.
The cover is a blur but she claps her hands. She does not mind the blur that takes the place on her parents’ faces. She’s young. Small. Innocent. She listens to the story and replays it in her head. She replays it and replays it until it’s the only thing she dreams of. Until her mind is a mindless loop of ballrooms and dresses, princes kissing a maiden’s hand, a clock striking midnight. She is the product of this story. She allows herself to breathe the words and recycle the theme. To inhale and exhale the remnants of her childhood.
It does not start with ink-stained fingers.
With hands moving in a similar blur, curled letters and phrases are birthed beneath the bottom of her quill. The first letter is a joke. Folded parchment slipped underneath Alfonse’s door to question the whereabouts of her hairbrush. Lost at dawn and never recovered. The letter is not returned as another; it comes in the form of her brother with an apologetic smile. Her hairbrush is not in his room yet that is not the reason for her next letter.
She speaks with hearts instead of punctuation. Emotion for grammar. A princess must have proper handwriting, but she does not want to stay stuck in the confinements of her room; Alfonse does and looks what’s become of him! A boy who speaks book long words and grammar of that a novel. She does not like it—she writes to her Mother the next day.
Unlike her brother, a letter is returned to her doorstep. A door opened with anticipation yet unfortunate, she is, to find the letter stuck at the bottom of the crack. Not held out by her Mother’s hand. She sees her, yes. Walking through the grand halls and standing by their Father. She waves at her, maybe even a little jump or two while waving her arms from where she stands at the top of the staircase. Mother does not see her—she writes to no one the next day.
It does not start with meadows.
Nor does it start with singing because Sharena can’t really sing and her voice is a tad bit too high but the girls don’t care. They don’t seem to care about how her arms are a bit too long to fit their clothing, or how her handwriting is a bit too sloppy. They don’t care for it. They care for her. So, she joins them. Small, small Sharena. Running in a field of flowers, the hem of her dress held between dainty fingers as she listens to the numbers as they fade from a girl’s voice.
10… She does not trip nor falter in her run. 8... A girl waves her over to a bush of white flowers, her dress showing her to be a messy little one. 6… Sharena shakes her head and laughs, instead gesturing over to somewhere else. 4… The girl joins her, tiny steps do not mix well with her long strides but hand in hand is unable to separate them. 2… The counting comes to a stop—her eyes open just as her knees hit the ground.
It does not start with nectar.
She does not know what love is or what she feels but there is something digging its nails into her heart at the sight of the goblet. Symbols in the words that are spoken yet she cannot hear none of it. Go. A voice picks at her mind, small hands pushing at her back. There is no fight but she can feel the burden of being there. Wherever they were. So, she runs. She runs and runs and her legs do not give out underneath her weight until the light is gone and the ambrosia has been drunk by tiny mouths. Tiny mouths yet she is left thirsty.
When she awakens, her throat is dry ( parched, even ) and the glass of water from the kitchen does not heal the scratchiness of her voice. Sharena feels empty but of what? Of what has she been missing. She goes back to bed only to find that sleep refuses to entertain her little ol’ self. It is not frustration that rises in her chest but… she can feel the weight of flowers upon her head.
It does not start with death.
Yet all things must come back to it. What is grief if not being tested again and again? She does not… she…… cannot… ( “They’re called compassion blooms!” “...they fit you.” )
Letter after letter has only the fate of being crumbled beneath gloved hands. Tossed in the trash and forced to witness the mess that becomes the Askran princess. Discipline in the form of shutting up. Discipline in the form of being overlooked. Discipline in the form of being. She is not what this ink has made but what is there to do but watch as Death starts the clock?
A promise of stars and a slope of safety is given and maybe it is then that she is brought back to the face of hope. An enemy shaped as a friend. A casket shaped as a brother. She does not laugh it off but there is a sense of comfort in knowing that the failure of another so much alike them proves as a benefit.
It does not start with identities.
And it is unfortunate that she questions it. Was all that she fought for fake? Does she gain the right to call those close as family? If this body is not HER body then why does it hurt when she bleeds? Why can she not take in the reality that she may be nothing but the monster told from children's stories; shaped as something she is not, as someone she is not. Accusations are discarded at the hands of light but is it selfish to say that she does not believe in them? What does not matter suddenly proves to be a priority but conflict can do nothing but push it back. There are harder things to worry over—she is overlooked once more, but the only one to blame is herself.
Peony calls them one and Sharena isn’t sure which bothers her more. The image of a lie or the truth. She decides that neither matters but in the hands of a dream, she falls victim to the call of someone familiar. Hands clutching her dress, blades of grass brushing against her feet as she runs. She can feel the weight of flowers on her head and wrists, worn as bracelets of gold and a crown she does not want. There is counting and outstretched hands and she is running away… again..? ( The sound of laughter fills her dreams for the next few days, but it’s the presence of sweet, sweet nectar that makes the dream fade instantly. )
She cannot remember what starts and what ends.
Hands curl around a neck and it is not hers but what is empathy if not feeling the weight of gloves around her own neck? ( She does not know what is what, but she knows that this is not it. ) A newly found anger rises from the depths of her throat, ready to spew words never spoken and spit out an irritation never had. There is no comfort in the way blue strands move before her. A color justice; a body pulled away from danger and anxiety.
The quill breaks beneath her fist. A beat of silence before she opens her hand, allowing the cracked parts to fall onto her desk. The letter is not finished; Mother is in her room. She will not have the strength to read it. She will not have the desire to read it. Quill is traded for a lance and the training hall becomes her haven.
( —Crisis averted. Head high, feet apart; hold your lance like you would hold your heart. Do not loosen your grip, learn how to adapt and fit the environment. Solve your issues how you would your training. )
It does not start with falling asleep.
But she almost does. She blinks herself awake to the familiar action of rubbing her eye. Mother closes the book; it is time for bed. Alfonse does not snore but with the way that his chest rises and falls, Sharena knows that he is asleep. And she is not. Father is gone. Back to his room, maybe. Mother kisses her goodnight and the lights turn off—the stuffed bear is tossed for the warmth of her brother, instead.
( Dreams of an older Sharena are given up for ballrooms and… princes kissing princesses on the hand and…. and maybe even a flower crown. Or a compassion bloom—
—she falls asleep without dreaming of an end. The dream will loop. She will allow it so. )
