Page 13 of May: Bloom & Bane

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.