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feredarStory: Dashed
Year: 983 FY
Characters: Keta
Warnings: Aftermath of a fatal accident involving family members, one of whom is a child
Denill was thirteen.
That's what beats through her mind, unceasing, after the accident,
as they pull his body, bent and broken, out of the sodden wreckage.
They try to heal him, to fix where he broke, and...
Denill, her son, her baby, was only thirteen.
It was an accident.
That's what they keep telling her, reassuring, and she knows
that it's true--a shifting sandbar, a sudden storm, a small pleasure-boat
dashed against unforgiving rocks.
An act of wrathful nature, no mortal hand involved.
She has his body.
She has that comfort, at least, in that body
which she can bury, a grave which she can visit,
where she can mourn, and feel she has some piece of him still.
His body, but not his father's.
It's all too much.
She plays it over and over in her head--why she wasn't with them,
how the weather turned (how like the morning
of her wedding day) how they brought her son back
and promised they'd keep searching for her husband.
They never find him.
And Denill--only thirteen--mirrors his father's watery grave
in one of earth, and she, in pieces, more alone than she dreamed possible,
despite her sisters at her side, kneels by her son,
too broken to weep.
Year: 983 FY
Characters: Keta
Warnings: Aftermath of a fatal accident involving family members, one of whom is a child
Denill was thirteen.
That's what beats through her mind, unceasing, after the accident,
as they pull his body, bent and broken, out of the sodden wreckage.
They try to heal him, to fix where he broke, and...
Denill, her son, her baby, was only thirteen.
It was an accident.
That's what they keep telling her, reassuring, and she knows
that it's true--a shifting sandbar, a sudden storm, a small pleasure-boat
dashed against unforgiving rocks.
An act of wrathful nature, no mortal hand involved.
She has his body.
She has that comfort, at least, in that body
which she can bury, a grave which she can visit,
where she can mourn, and feel she has some piece of him still.
His body, but not his father's.
It's all too much.
She plays it over and over in her head--why she wasn't with them,
how the weather turned (how like the morning
of her wedding day) how they brought her son back
and promised they'd keep searching for her husband.
They never find him.
And Denill--only thirteen--mirrors his father's watery grave
in one of earth, and she, in pieces, more alone than she dreamed possible,
despite her sisters at her side, kneels by her son,
too broken to weep.