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(truth: the farm has no use for a blade whose edge is too dull to cut)
But outside of the Farm’s clinical walls, the world seems infinitely more fragile. Necessity had molded her into a weapon, and again it was necessity that turns her soft. She emerges from the Farm a collection of broken glass, puncturing through the tissue-paper world she finds herself in.
Being too sharp attracts attention. Being too sharp means she can’t belong.
So Solana sands down the worst of the edges. She learns to approach people with an open palm rather than a closed fist. She learns to be soft.
(lie: it was easy)
Oh, it had been easy enough with people, who cry when hurt, and animals, who run when startled. But the rose does not weep when it is snipped from its stem; the oak does not flee when the saw is taken to its trunk. Flowers and the other silent things in this world do not show their hurts as people do. It makes their suffering easy to overlook until it is too late.
Solana’s first attempts at a garden had been a massacre, paid for in blighted leaves and withered blossoms discarded in the dirt.
She is better now. She figures out the byzantine language of plants: white spots on the edges of geranium leaves means mildew, the faint dusting of brown along the hyacinth blooms means thirst, the lace-like bruising tracing the edges of orchid petals speaks of too much pressure. One by one, the mysteries of blossoms and ivy untangle themselves.
It takes time, but she learns to listen to those whose pain cannot be given voice.
(truth: this is how she learns to be gentle with herself, too)
The Farm has no use for a blade too dull, but it also has no use for a blade that weeps when it is cracked. It takes Solana almost too long to remember that the Farm taught her to be silent in her own suffering, too.
(lie: she remembers often to be kind to herself)
She rains down destruction and devastation in her corner of the world, then pretends to put it back together. She hurts people, frightens them, destroys their illusions just as much as she clings to her own. She stares at the world from behind a layer of warped glass and dares to dream that it is something she could be a part of.
She is a liar of the worst kind, the one who wants to believe her own falsehoods.
Blue Rocket does not deserve kindness. But more to the point: neither does Solana Birchwood.
(truth: there are people now to remind her when she herself forgets)
Marcia makes her lunch again today, a mound of sticky rice drowned in sweet curry. There is more than enough for her to take home for dinner, I insist, it’s too much for an old crone like me to finish, you’re doing me a favor, darling.
Dr. Mortum cares for a shell but Solana takes affection where it is given. Her heart aches at the deception, but Rose accepts the good doctor’s embraces and time regardless. For now Solana is content to pretend that she can still feel the warmth of Dr. Mortum’s arm draped over her shoulder when she must inevitably return to her own form.
Daniel remembers her as she was, so earnestly that it makes her want to be that person again. She cannot, but he still cares regardless.
Lady Argent trusts Solana to keep her word. No, she trusts Blue Rocket to keep her word. Argent will never know how much of a relief it is to Solana that she hasn’t lost herself completely, that even Blue Rocket is still worthy of trust.
Chen is- well, he is Chen, but time has worn him soft, same as her. He understands that sometimes she needs silence, and sometimes she needs Spoon’s simple happiness. The world has broken them in similar ways, and this new understanding between the two of them has settled some of Solana’s old hurts.
And Ricardo.
Oh, Ricardo.
(lie: they will always be there for her)
“I read something once,” he says, letting gravel run through his dirt-smeared fingers, “that the things you love tell you what you are.”
Solana hums, not quite listening. Conversation with him is familiar enough by now that she can let the words flow without too much thought. Instead, she focuses her attention on the anxious little succulent she is currently rehoming. “Do they?”
“Yeah,” says Ricardo. “I think they do.”
There is enough weight in his voice that Solana must look up at him. He is smiling, face illuminated in gold by the afternoon sunlight. He gestures at the spread of plants and pots, the echeveria and blossoms scattered around the rooftop like glitter.
“Just look at all this, Sol,” he says, shaking his head. The movement reads one part wonder, another part joy. “You care, so much. You are kind, you are soft, you are amazing. You’ve seen what I do with plants, and here you are, making it look effortless. Keeping something healthy, keeping something alive. You know that, don’t you? That you’re wonderful.”
It’s too real. Solana can feel herself start to believe him, because everything seems too real when Ricardo says it. And she cannot, cannot, have that.
So she does what she does best, deflects, reflects: “Oh? and what do the things you love say about you, Ilio?”
Seconds stretch on for longer than they should.
When she can bring herself to meet his gaze, there’s a flash of an emotion she can’t name in his eyes. Something too buoyant to be grief, yet too ragged to be joy.
“She tells me often that I’m a fool,” he says, softly. “And she would be right.”
No more words are said.
Silent pain, thinks Solana, and places the timid echeveria back in its pot. Rot has already started to claim its leaves. It won’t last.