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She often dreams of flying.
The wind tickled her face, her hair whipping behind her. Soaring. Free. Propelled forward.
(once she rode a majestic eagle)
Just flying. Her gaze ever upward, to the skies and the clouds and the distant skyline.
(never down - there is no down, nothing but the empty sky)
When she wakes, she remembers the sensations, the wind on her skin, the freedom of getting lost without the need to return. In her bed, she never quite succeeds in capturing those feelings and retaining them.
(it’s a flight back to the sense of home)
She knows time has passed, but she can’t have tended to her cattle. She can’t have gathered the familiar materials awaiting her. She can’t have taken care of the responsibilities thrust upon her.
(how can she trust this strange world when it pulls tricks like this?)
This world has been kind to her thus far. Friendly faces welcomed her, recommended a place to settle. Strategic, with a river on one side and a mountain on the other. Also quite beautiful, she supposed.
(she must defend herself from anything that comes her way)
She has no idea who died on her new doorstep. The clothes fit her style, at least, and she can adjust them so they fit her better.
(if she can salvage it, she must - they didn’t need those clothes anymore, anyway)
The neighbors are nice, if not a little threatening. Their wide smiles seem to hide some sort of sick depravity behind them. Would they be that hostile?
(you can never be too careful, dear)
She trades with them. Her iron is wanted throughout the world. People with friendly faces and kind words come, hoping for a trade. With no bad intentions whatsoever.
(she hides a knife on her person, just in case)
She builds a home, and another, and another. Enough for a family; enough to house a village. It reminds her of home, whatever that is. It almost fills her with a sense of nostalgia and homesickness. Almost.
(how do you miss something you can’t quite remember?)
She builds, because what else can she do? She builds and builds and takes inspiration from the dreams. She’s convinced they try to tell her something. They have to tell her something.
(sometimes she wishes she would sleep and permanently wake in the dream)
The airship may not be exactly what she had dreamt, but it works out. It feels familiar somehow. The sight tickles the back of her brain, almost bringing back something.
(it feels like the journey homeward)
It doesn’t work. It cannot bring her home, as she’d hoped. She’d have to find another way home. She’ll have to live with the failure for the time being and find another way home.
(she’ll have to live with not knowing who she is a little longer)
Home…
(‘home’ is just as foreign and vague as ‘here’)
Somewhere, far beyond that horizon, home awaits. Somewhere out there, she’ll find the comfort and familiarity she tries to build in this strange land. Somewhere beyond the horizon, someone knows her better than she knows herself.
(the longer she waits, the bigger the chance that someone is dead)
Maybe one day, that familiarity will be resolved. Maybe she’ll find a new sense of familiarity and home here, once these friendly faces have proven their friendliness.
(don’t let this world consume you and eat away at who you might have been)
She often dreams of flying; soaring, free, without a care or worry in the world.
(she hopes to find that peace someday)