The late winter had backpedaled, rolling in a chill during the night. She’d left breakfast early in search of the library, the Stacks they called them, only to quickly wander astray for how sunny and crisp it was outside. It was too easy to breathe after the stuffy indoors, steaming the breath. and the brightness of the light hurt the eyes for how amplified it was by the great dense fog that hanged over everything.
The monastery courtyards, the people that went on with their too early morning whichever way, the gardens she’d pass into through a decrepit archway. Some flowerbeds, herbs, an orchard that was probably greater than it seemed for whom couldn’t see the half of it. The line of trees trailed into the void, so full of possibility. The ground crunched underfoot.
Whatever had bloomed too hopeful, too early, had frozen over. Little buds of green on the ground and the trees, dusted with frost. So many little crystals on the blades of new grass. Time would tell which would yet come back and survive death.
There were shapes of people in the fog, but it didn’t bother her. Much. She pulled on the front of her veil all the same, tried it absently, feeling strangely lacking without the cloth mask she’d donned for her long months at the lazaret. A bit more nakedness, for how all the world would see her face again. Expressions or lack thereof. More things to be judged by.
Self-centered. Stop it.
She brought the broad sleeves of her habit together and warmed her hands in their shelter. Swallowed the dry hesitation in her throat and approached whomever was closest, though she wouldn’t lift her look from the ground as she spoke. Perhaps she was in luck and they would take it as humility, which she’d been implored to have more of.
“ Please excuse me— “ She begun, bowing her head. The rosary hanging off her rope belt gave a dull chime as she curtsied, for whatever reason. Stop it, unbecoming. Flavours and impulses, earthly delights.
“ But might you point me towards the Library? I went in search of it according to previous instruction, but— “ Brows twisting with shame, she tried to smile. “ I’m afraid there are so many buildings. “
The monastery courtyards, the people that went on with their too early morning whichever way, the gardens she’d pass into through a decrepit archway. Some flowerbeds, herbs, an orchard that was probably greater than it seemed for whom couldn’t see the half of it. The line of trees trailed into the void, so full of possibility. The ground crunched underfoot.
Whatever had bloomed too hopeful, too early, had frozen over. Little buds of green on the ground and the trees, dusted with frost. So many little crystals on the blades of new grass. Time would tell which would yet come back and survive death.
There were shapes of people in the fog, but it didn’t bother her. Much. She pulled on the front of her veil all the same, tried it absently, feeling strangely lacking without the cloth mask she’d donned for her long months at the lazaret. A bit more nakedness, for how all the world would see her face again. Expressions or lack thereof. More things to be judged by.
Self-centered. Stop it.
She brought the broad sleeves of her habit together and warmed her hands in their shelter. Swallowed the dry hesitation in her throat and approached whomever was closest, though she wouldn’t lift her look from the ground as she spoke. Perhaps she was in luck and they would take it as humility, which she’d been implored to have more of.
“ Please excuse me— “ She begun, bowing her head. The rosary hanging off her rope belt gave a dull chime as she curtsied, for whatever reason. Stop it, unbecoming. Flavours and impulses, earthly delights.
“ But might you point me towards the Library? I went in search of it according to previous instruction, but— “ Brows twisting with shame, she tried to smile. “ I’m afraid there are so many buildings. “
