Greener Grass. 38th Winter, 514AV, nighttime
To call this place a garden was a dramatic exaggeration, one that made Jeremy depressed and frustrated in equal measure. He stood at the entry point to the garden, golden eyes staring at the flatness, the greyness of it all. Jeremy had expected to see grass, trees, or a pond -- anything green and of Caiyha's own creation. It had not been lost on the Kelvic that the Stone Gardens were a place of memory for the fallen soldiers of Syliras, but he had not expected to see such a dramatic lack of life. This place is well suited to consider death, he thought bitterly.
Slowly, dismally, the Witch followed the cobbled pathway through the garden. Perhaps in Summer the Garden would be greener? The winter had certainly turned the patches of grass into clumps of dirty green and brown, cold and frosted. The bushes that framed the walls of the Garden were almost all bare as well; a sad sight indeed. But the season alone could not explain the clear destruction of nature that made Jeremy's stomach clench and twist.
With a sigh that emphasised his complete exhaustion, Jeremy stooped down, his hand resting upon a patch of damp, cold, neglected grass. The experience of Nura still amazed him, how animals - and more intriguingly, plants - could share their memories with him. Unsurprisingly, the body of grass he touched now communicated a never-ending sense of desperation and abuse. Thousands of feet had traipsed along this grass whilst mourning lost family members or simply seeking solitude. Nobody had mistreated the greenery out of malice, but city people were ignorant. They stomped on the grass when the stones hurt their feet, parents allowed children to pluck the few struggling flowers that managed to break through the compact soil. Worse of all, as more soldiers died, more grass was churned and removed to make room for additional commemorative pebbles.
As it seemed with all cities, nature struggled to survive against the demands of the public.
"Are memories of the fallen not enough?" Jeremy spat quietly, glaring at the neatly arranged pebbles. Each one represented some high-ranking solider who had sacrificed himself for Syrlias. Admirable, indeed, Jeremy considered, but a destructive commemoration.
It was not the dead soldiers who were at fault, of course. But Jeremy had been in Syliras only three days and already he was drained. Sunberth had been demanding, but the lawless city had not prepared Jeremy for Syliras. The entire city itself was unnatural, existing within the walls of a fortress where hardly any natural life could flourish. The city stunk of pollution, falseness and death. Even the rats, usually prudent survivalists of cities, carried with them a sense of exhaustion and desperation.
Slowly, dismally, the Witch followed the cobbled pathway through the garden. Perhaps in Summer the Garden would be greener? The winter had certainly turned the patches of grass into clumps of dirty green and brown, cold and frosted. The bushes that framed the walls of the Garden were almost all bare as well; a sad sight indeed. But the season alone could not explain the clear destruction of nature that made Jeremy's stomach clench and twist.
With a sigh that emphasised his complete exhaustion, Jeremy stooped down, his hand resting upon a patch of damp, cold, neglected grass. The experience of Nura still amazed him, how animals - and more intriguingly, plants - could share their memories with him. Unsurprisingly, the body of grass he touched now communicated a never-ending sense of desperation and abuse. Thousands of feet had traipsed along this grass whilst mourning lost family members or simply seeking solitude. Nobody had mistreated the greenery out of malice, but city people were ignorant. They stomped on the grass when the stones hurt their feet, parents allowed children to pluck the few struggling flowers that managed to break through the compact soil. Worse of all, as more soldiers died, more grass was churned and removed to make room for additional commemorative pebbles.
As it seemed with all cities, nature struggled to survive against the demands of the public.
"Are memories of the fallen not enough?" Jeremy spat quietly, glaring at the neatly arranged pebbles. Each one represented some high-ranking solider who had sacrificed himself for Syrlias. Admirable, indeed, Jeremy considered, but a destructive commemoration.
It was not the dead soldiers who were at fault, of course. But Jeremy had been in Syliras only three days and already he was drained. Sunberth had been demanding, but the lawless city had not prepared Jeremy for Syliras. The entire city itself was unnatural, existing within the walls of a fortress where hardly any natural life could flourish. The city stunk of pollution, falseness and death. Even the rats, usually prudent survivalists of cities, carried with them a sense of exhaustion and desperation.
