[From an opening in the trees he can see the column of smoke, billowing and black, like so long ago. And as he rises slowly from his crouch and stands there, on the edge of then and now, something in his gut twists up with the desperation he had once felt and he almost runs towards it, runs until the air burns raw in his throat and lungs, because maybe this time he could make it.
But this isn’t Valachia. And as he breathes, forcing himself to stop and think for too long, he has the sense to remember that he’s fifteen years too late. When the fire died and the ashes cooled, scattering in the wind, there wouldn’t be anything of her to find.
He doesn’t expect to see Elizabeth when he closes the distance. Nor does he expect to see her watching the shelter burn, letting it burn, it seems, without a care in the way towns and villages had under his own orders. And while he might not understand, he admires the sight regardless. Because a part of him had always wanted to see the world go up in flames.]
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But this isn’t Valachia. And as he breathes, forcing himself to stop and think for too long, he has the sense to remember that he’s fifteen years too late. When the fire died and the ashes cooled, scattering in the wind, there wouldn’t be anything of her to find.
He doesn’t expect to see Elizabeth when he closes the distance. Nor does he expect to see her watching the shelter burn, letting it burn, it seems, without a care in the way towns and villages had under his own orders. And while he might not understand, he admires the sight regardless. Because a part of him had always wanted to see the world go up in flames.]