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Lark looked up to see Rosethorn walking the winding path. She wasn't alone: no, not alone, not at all. She was latched onto Crane as though he was some sort of life-line.
The sight made the thread mage peering out the window cringe. Her heart ached; it was almost physical. Her stomach felt queasy: that WAS physical. She knew running out to the privy would be of no use. Throwing up an aching heart wasn't exactly possible.
The willowy dedicate sighed and glanced down at her work. After a few attempts to find interest in her previous project, she stood and glared at it.
"No use. I won't finish you until I properly get my mind onto something else."
A walk. She would go for a walk. Somewhere that plant mage she yearned for wouldn't find her. Up high? Sure.
Lark walked out into the sunshine and smiled. It was a melancholy smile, but at least it was something. The birds were singing; the grass was green as ever; the sky was as blue as she had ever seen it. It seemed such an idealistic moment, though it was lost on her heartache. She walked gracefully along the path to the wall overlooking the sea. Maybe she would appreciate the view of the ever-tumbling ocean. She had always enjoyed things of the tumbling sort.
She didn't enjoy it. In fact, she quite wished to be somewhere else. Her knees felt weak up on the wall; her breath came hard. This wasn't the peaceful thinking she was looking for. No, not at all.
Steps. She heard steps. From where? She looked to her left and wished to fall.
Rosethorn was climbing up the steps. No. Why would she be up here?
Shouldn't have wished to fall, Lark thought with a mental slap. Her knees collapsed; she prepared herself for the feeling of hard stone against her precious, fragile flesh.
When did she become so fast? The physical pain never came. Instead, Lark found herself in warm and strong arms. At a glance upwards, she saw almond eyes filled with concern.
Butterflies graced her stomachs with twirls and tumbles similar to the ones she had done growing up. Lark hated the feeling, knowing that it would leave one of a never ending ache in its wake.
"What's wrong, Lark?" Rosethorn asked. Caring. Her voice was caring. Few people heard her voice like that.
I do, Lark thought. A few more butterflies joined the group. No! It's useless! Lark's brain screamed at her heart. It was a terrible inconvenience to be scolding oneself when one was being asked a question.
"I'm...not sure," Lark lied and attempted to get up. Damn those strong arms! They kept her locked in the loving iron embrace. The thread mage loosened and closed her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them, Rosethorn's face was inches closer. Concern was spread into every crease of her beautiful face. Oh no, Rosie, please don't worry...
"I'm getting you home," the chestnut-haired angel said with finality.
Home? Where is this home? Of more importance, how am I moving? With little effort, Lark gazed around to see that Rosethorn had hefted her into the air. Quite a lot of the willowy woman's weight was on the smaller female. Lark helped by moving her own legs in the action that usually culminated in her walking. She felt weak, but her attempt helped. Soon enough the pair was down the stairs.
The trek to Discipline was easier as there was no downhill battle: the stairs were behind them. This walk was straight for the most part and went by quickly.
Lark pried her mind off the feeling of being safe in Rosethorn's arms. Her smell. What kind of plants made up her scent? Lark didn't know. The green mage sure was warm. And soft. Nonono. Stop. Thinking. About. Her.
Before the taller earth Dedicate knew it, she was in an unfamiliar bed in a very simple room. Rosethorn's room, Lark's mind reasoned. Why am I here?
"I've put you here so I can keep a better eye on you," Rosethorn answered before Lark could even ask. Her touch was gentle and caring as she removed Lark's shoes and tucked the older woman in. Rosethorn then sat on the bed next to the resting woman. "Do you know why that happened?"
Lark bit back the urge to retort something about heartbreak; instead she shook her head softly. Rosethorn gave a sad half-smile and leaned down slowly. A soft kiss graced Lark's brow; she blushed. The plant mage then stood and walked from the room.
"Patience, Lark," the woman muttered to herself before sleep overtook her. Patience.