@4freedoms continued from here.
There were plenty of nights when Eden was tasked with the role of ushering any strays to their barracks. They’d dodge, scamper, hide at the unmistakable sound of her approaching. Air of authority, intimidation — her boots would simply hit the ground and they would go running, darting off in hopes of avoiding discipline. They never got far, of course. Eden had begun to know them well — their habits, the cover they’d take, the signals they’d give each other to warn of her approach. She always found them, always spotted them. She’d bark and order and they would slink away, tails between legs. They’d regret it in the morning. They always did.
On that night in particular, whilst Eden did her rounds — she spotted familiar, bright locks, whipped by breeze. Moonlight reflected off fiery wisps. Bronwyn is perched atop a building, arms wrapped around her knees and pulled flush to her chest. Eden knows why she’s there, why she stares into the sky, at stars no doubt blurred by grief-filled vision.
She contemplates leaving her there, turning a blind eye — letting her stay in solitude and connect with her fallen idol in the only way she knows how. But her heart betrays her; her legs carry her. She’s climbing atop the building and approaching Bronwyn from behind.
Eden offers a hollow statement to announce her presence — and it is returned by an equally as hollow response. It’s formality; she’s out past curfew, she shouldn’t be out. But the young girl continues, voice raspy, lost through anguished howls that ripped and tore at her throat. Bronwyn’s words compel Eden to glance at the stars herself. She’d perched upon rooftops many nights herself. Gazed up, comforted by their sight and by the one who sat beside her. And Eden supposes that one could even connect with the fallen through those bright flecks in the sky.
And even as the younger begs, bargains — Eden’s previous words hold a heavy truth. She shouldn’t be out here by herself. The stars could only offer her so much on their own.
Eden is not much of a woman, not presently much of a weapon. ( Hell beckons her, but not now. Not on cool, quiet nights like these. ) — But she perpetually remains a collection of ghosts. Reflections betray her, empty barracks taunt her. And in an odd way, that large, empty office at the end of the hall she has walked down so many times haunts her too.
And Bronwyn has collected her own ghosts as well. Perhaps she even names the stars — turns a haunt into something brighter. Something warmer.
Eden won’t make her go back inside. No, she decided that before she even climbed up onto the roof to join her. But Bronwyn shouldn’t be out here by herself.
Wordlessly, Eden moves forward now. Boots reach the edge of the building before she lowers herself down to sit beside the young soldier. So young — bearing the burden of such heavy, heavy loss. And her heart weighs more too, no doubt — the fallen clutch, dig their nails into it. They linger, and she’s keeping them here, in a way. As she gazes up at the sky again, Eden briefly wonders if their fallen comrades can see them. She wonders if they’re watching.
❛ I’m relieving you of your duties tomorrow. ❜ She finally speaks after a long drag of silence between them. She’ll talk to the Captain about it later. He trusts her discretion, anyway.
A few more moments pass before Eden reaches into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulls out a piece of fabric. It’s a remnant of her own ghosts, her own losses: the patch from Oruo’s uniform. Eden turns it over in her hand, index finger idly fiddling with its rough edges. She’d ripped it off in haste, desperate to keep a part of her best friend.
And she’s painfully aware nothing she can say in that moment will heal Bronwyn’s wounds, will allow her a feeling of relief. Loss was a familiar feeling to them all, but that didn’t make it easy. It was never easy.
❛ They’re never really gone. ❜ Eden speaks again. It’s an odd statement of sentiment, coming from her. But it’s true — for better or for worse, damn, it is true. She can’t escape them, the ghosts, those she’d lost. But perhaps it’d offer the girl some comfort. Perhaps the light within her would receive it as something to hold within her heart. Transform her mourning into something else.
❛ We keep fighting. We stay alive. For them. ❜
Yes, transform the embers of grief within her to a fire — a will to stay alive. To push forward.
