6. A Piece of Me For a Glimpse of You
a piece of me for a glimpse of you
The Iron Frost didn’t creep in as I hoped; it slammed down like a prison door. Outside our woven home, the snow piled so high it has buried the bronze skeletons completely. There is no color left.
Except for you.
Inside, the air is thick and still. The heat of the glass box is battling the frost that creeps through the gaps in the willow walls. I spend hours huddled against the crystal. My wings, now a dull, brittle gray, wrap around the stone like a burial shroud.
Droot has become a tiny, vibrating ball of white fur. He barely leaves his nest in my elbow. But every time I start to drift into a listless sleep, he lets out a high, sharp pip that cuts through the fog.
Sage is cold, he chirps. The Sun is warm. Sage needs to stay close to The Sun.
He’s right.
I press my palm over the place her finger moved, and I stay there for hours. My eyes burn, waiting for another flicker.
“One more time, Eden,” I whisper, my breath frosting the glass. “Just one more time, mí’aelvára, so I know I didn’t dream it.” (My angel)
Day 215: The silence is the hardest part.
In the summer, there was the hum of bees. In the autumn, there was the clatter of leaves. But the Iron Frost has devoured all sound. It feels like the world has died and forgotten to take us with it.
I find myself talking to you more today, just to break the quiet.
Droot still has Lunch warm in his nest. When you wake up, you will have to be the voice of reason.
I still cannot bring myself to break his heart by telling him the truth.
He loves you, you know. Even in the cold, he checks to make sure Our Sun is still warm.
My voice sounds like dry parchment, but the more I speak, the more the glass seems to glow.
Sage is a loud bird today, Droot chirps, peeking an eye out of my elbow. But The Sun likes the stories. See? The light is dancing.
He’s right.
Every place my breath touches the glass, the frost forms in the shape of petals.
Day 230: I’ve stopped counting the hours. There is only the cycle of the pip, and the steady warmth of each of your heartbeats.
Last night, the storm was so violent it threatened to tear our hut apart. I had to stand and brace my shoulders against the main root-arch. My feet burned against the freezing mud. But I stayed there the entire night, while the wind screamed like a banshee outside, so I could keep you safe.
By dawn, I was encased in a thick layer of ice, my skin as gray as the winter sky. But inside your glass, you stayed warm and cozy.
We are winning.
Day 242: The frost is a thief. Every time I blink, it crawls across the glass, blurring your face and turning the fire of your hair into a dull, frozen smudge.
I hate it.
It’s become a ritual now. Every hour, I wipe the crystal clean, scrubbing until the heel of my palm is raw and I can see the tiny pulse jumping in your neck.
I rest my forehead against the cold surface and use my fingertip to trace words into the thin layer of condensation my breath leaves behind.
Thé arí thí wará í chá. (You are the warmth I choose)
Day 255: Droot caught me drawing flowers in the fog today. He watched for a long time, his head tilted so far to the side he almost fell off my knee.
Sage is making finger-magic, he chirps. The Sun can’t see the finger-magic, Sage. Her eyes are under the curtains.
“I know she can’t see it, Droot,” I whisper, tracing the curve of her cheek through the glass. “But maybe her sírael can. (Soul) Maybe it’s like… a letter she can read in her dreams.”
Droot wants to write a letter.
I lift him up, and with a very serious expression, he presses a single, tiny paw-print into the fog right above her heart.
There, he pips, overly satisfied with himself. Now she knows Droot is the best alarm clock.
I wipe the glass clean again ten minutes later and start over, but I leave the spot where his paw had been.
Day 268: I can’t see you.
The ice has won.
A thick, opaque sheet of frost has fused to the crystal, too stubborn for even the heat of my palm to melt.
I stare at a wall of white, panic spreading through my chest. I need to see her more than I need to fly.
I reach back, and my fingers find the most delicate section of my wing.
I don’t hesitate.
With a sharp, wet sound that makes Droot shriek, I tear a strip of the silky membrane away.
Pain shoots from my shoulder to my heels, causing my knees to buckle.
I let out a low growl, clutching the scrap of myself tightly in my fist. It’s warm and soaked with golden blood and rich green sap.
The heat of my lifeforce acts as a torch, melting through the frost on the glass until I can see her again.
There she is.
Her face looks serene, long copper lashes resting over her freckled cheeks.
Sage! Droot chirps, his little nose twitching frantically as he scrambles up my back to sniff the wound. Sage is broken! The wing is crying!
“I’m fine, Droot,” I sigh, leaning my forehead against the cleared circle. My blood is smeared at the edges like a glittering halo.
“I just… I couldn’t be in the dark anymore,” I whisper.
The pain becomes a steady throb, but every time I look at her, it goes quiet.
A piece of me for a glimpse of you—it was the simplest trade I’ve ever made.
Day 282: The wound on my wing has scabbed over into an uneven ridge. But I still have the scrap of myself that I tore away. I use it to see you every day.
I realized today that I am no longer just a guardian. I am turning into a piece of the landscape. The frost has settled into the grooves of my bark-like vines, and if I sit still for too long, the ice tries to weld me to the plinth.
Droot has started bringing me gifts to keep my spirits up. Today, it was a frozen pinecone. Yesterday, it was an old soda can that blew into the clearing. He told me he had seen humans drinking out of them before and asked me why I wasn’t drinking the one he gave me…
Sage is a statue, Droot chirps, his little eyes full of worry. Statues don’t breathe. Sage needs to breathe for The Sun.
“I am breathing, Droot,” I rasp.
To prove it, I lean in and breathe against the glass.
Day 299: Tonight, the silence finally broke.
There was a tiny, sharp snap. The sound of a single willow branch outside our hut finally shaking off the weight of ice.
Then came another.
And another.
The Iron Frost is losing its grip on the meadow, Saevúra.
I slump at the base of the glass, my wings wrapped so tightly around the stone that I can feel the tremble of every shift beneath the earth.
I am exhausted.
The string inside my chest feels so thin I’m afraid a heavy breath might snap it.
A drop of water hits the top of the willow dome and trickles through the roots. The first one in a hundred days. It lands in the center of the glass, directly over Eden’s forehead.
The crystal hums, and a surge of heat radiates from the box so suddenly the frost on my arms begins to steam.
Did you know I needed you? I wonder.
The Sun is waking up! Droot screams in my mind. Sage! The Sun is hungry for the light!
I press my palm to the glass and wait for the world to turn green.
Winter is over.
We survived the dark.