Work Text:
Brigid
‘But no, take me home
Take me home where I belong
I can’t take it anymore.’
—AURORA, ‘Runaway’
On misty days across the lands
I feel the piercing wind,
It surges through my summer braids
Weaved from blood and kin.
While laughter rings across the hall
Like a murder of merry crows,
You hold my hands against your chest
For a sweet moment’s repose.
I peruse the Fódlan tome of speech
In midnight library light,
I feel each page grow heavier
From the strain of speaking right.
I know one day I shall return
To Brigid, my dear homeland —
And so I weep in native tears
As you offer me your hand.
