Yarrow

IIIII - The Sweet Lullaby of the Trees

I grip the cold metal dog tag that rests on my shoulders as the rain pins my hair to my neck -- mortified by the anticipation for my myriad of scars, both internal and external, to grow rapidly in the days to come. My body tenses as I trudge forward through the monotonous, but scenic, meadow; which now appears to be a valley. My fingernails already caked in dirt: this is going to be a long and gruelling experience.
But strangely I am overcome with a terrific ardour, yet I'm feeling relentlessly melancholy all the while. Well, he's done it, hasn't he? The ill-humoured Cunning has finally achieved his goal, he's kicked me and my family (or rather, friends that feel like family) to the curb and returned to his city and riches; finally ending his charade and only further proving him to be a sternly obstinate, bilious, bastard. Or has he? Is it over? It can't be. Not yet. This must just be the beginning — it has to be; nothing else would make sense. There's bound to be something. Some kind of hurdle that takes more effort to clear and more determination and confidence to even attempt. Finally, I decide on a word to describe exactly what I'll need. Courage. It'll take courage to keep going now... to not bury myself six feet under so that my lungs cave in on my body and I slowly drown in the earth: suffocation. The trees speak to me, "hang from our limbs". I almost feel like I can hear their whispers. And I want so badly to obey them. If I were alone, if I didn't have Bellamy and Annaliese to support, I would do it. I would end this miserable life here and now. But I can't. I have to ignore the trees, the berries, and everything with some lethal aspect.
It smells like rain. That familiar scent I love so dearly — subtle, but refreshing. Because even now, in the cool days of late autumn, it brings back the nostalgic feeling of a spring shower. That calming aroma which is always lingering when there's a storm; it's therapeutic. The humidity seeps into my skin and the hairs on my arms and legs stick up in reaction. The ground has softened at contact with the downpour to deep mud and my boots sink into it like it's quicksand — almost feeling gravitated further and further down with each step. I have this aching feeling in my chest, a dreadful thing, it's tucked away in the nethermost places; it radiates a horrible pain, and if that wasn't enough, the feeling occupies the worst place it possibly could: my heart. Because when you think about it in-depth, you realise that it's so much easier to say "I have a headache" rather than "there's a gaping hole in my heart". That gaping hole just keeps growing, and I'm quite sure it's going to break me once and for all. I'll be non-repairable and beyond anyone's grasp — beyond my grasp, even. I can't stand it. Knowing that I'll never see Mae again. Not as long as I'm out here and she's still in Selum; stuck behind the walls that act as a cage. That condemns all that live inside.
The fog is still thick, but as we trudge further, I begin to notice more and more details in my surroundings. The valley is home to a large stretch of forest, which we're closely approaching, and I can hear a river nearby. I can't see it, though. I still rely on Bellamy's grip of my hand, hanging on to the sensation to stay grounded. It's warm, Bellamy's hand, it's nice. Amid all the noise and static, it's nice. Static. If I had to choose one word to describe myself currently, that would be it. I am a hopeless human being, barely tethered together by a skeleton which is on the verge of death; I'm a supernova in its final stages of life before dissolution. The world is cold and unforgiving — and yet, it's unbearably bright. I'm trying to make sense of it all... how do you differentiate hope and dread? Sometimes they're deceivingly similar. But the consequences for misinterpreting them can be detrimental. Maybe a hopeful life ends in heaven and a dreadful life ends in tears, sorrow, and tragedy. But here and now, I don't know what I'm feeling. Is it relief? Terror? Sadness? Whatever it is, it's exhausting and bitter. I'm experiencing tunnel vision and my mind is racing, yet somehow, I just feel numb. Keeping my eyes open for the sights of the world is too painful, so I shut them. Only subsiding my emotions to a dull haze of confusion. A whirlwind.
That day... the day my parents perished... that was the day my world came to a screeching halt. As if planet earth simply stopped spinning on its axis — no, more like if the entire world ceased to exist. My whole world. The trees, the sky, the ground, my family, all lost. All gone and vanished into thin air. Only now the air isn't thin. The air is thick and muggy. It paralyses me; denounces me to little more than a deathly coward who fears consciousness more than death. But I guess dying is easy. Staying alive? Well, that takes courage — it takes bravery. I always thought to be brave, you had to do frightening things without fear or hesitation. But the more I think about it, the more I realise: true bravery is following through despite your fears.
"Yarrow?"
Bellamy's voice pulls me back to my senses; the mud, the rain, the valley, the forest, the river, and the warmth of Bellamy's hand.
I look to my left — Bellamy holds a harsh gaze straight forward and doesn't look back my way, but I hear his words echo,
"I'm not letting them win. We're going to find a way back in there. And I swear on my life, we'll give 'em' hell."
The rain further dampens my clothes and hair and it runs down my arms and legs; just as it always does — and Bellamy's words invade every inch of my mind. By "them," I know he meant Cunning -- and whoever's helping him behind the scenes. The statement has an underlying quality to it. A quality I can't quite describe. It almost seems colourful, vibrant, if you will. Like his words portray an entire sunset, an array of placid colours that subdue my emotions almost like the sun's sleepy rays subdue the dusk sky. Knowing Bellamy, he was being completely and utterly serious. I'm tired and weak; my entire body feels so numb and yet so beaten. The next several hours go quickly — I don't let go of Bellamy's hand the whole time, and before I know it, the first stars of the young night are dropping their coats of concealing armour. I'm stuck in a haze of confusion and delusion, and so I can't say I remember much of anything that has happened today. All I register is the cold ground I lay upon and the silver moon that illuminates my world. I allow myself to drift asleep.
My dreams are lucid. I hear a quiet and angelic voice — I recognise it so well. This is Bellamy's voice. He's mumbling some sort of melody; one I know very well.