Rhiya

Stalks of grass and flowers alike would have bristled pleasantly to the guiding hand of the early morning breeze. The wind carving its way over the collection of dirt and stone that surrounded Nenuial; where picturesque landscapes had been butchered by the unstoppable ingenuity of man. The river which flowed below an undeterminable King’s feet seemed rather gentle this morn, to Dagramir’s keen eye. The Gondorian stood calm upon the edge of the withering bridge, feet spread evenly to the tune of his shoulders.

The Lady never thought that when she woke up that morning, he would be there once more. Of course, there was the underlying hope to which she would internally criticize herself. As she grew older she knew better than to wear her emotions on her sleeves. She thought she had grown colder and perhaps she did.

*The following piece contains a brief description of self-harm. If this subject matter is something that would trigger you or make you feel uncomfortable, I advise you to proceed no further.*

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Blink.

Wooden beams stretched across a floral white expanse of painted framework that lay above Dagramir’s prone body. The contours of the roof hazed its way into his immediate attention as he did his best to return to his mind some form of conscious ability.

Blink.

Between the gentle patter of raindrops dancing against the cloth canopy above him, and the sharpened chill to the air that flowed around him, Dagramir sat unusually attentive one bright afternoon. Winter’s chilly grip upon the land had begun to wane, its attentions diverting elsewhere. A new season was dawning, one of fresh flowers and offspring alike. And, just so, his very own child sat on the ground to his front; knees bent, and attention taken.