Fly away, little bird.

the truth of ayla, the pain of her, was like a song you could feel vibrating on the air, even if you didn’t know the words. it was a hum, low and throaty and full of sorrow.

“i have a heart like you, ayla.” crier repeated, pressing ayla’s hand harder against her chest. ayla heard her own heartbeat and felt crier's—a song tapping against her palm, a racing pulse beneath her fingers. ayla was breathing too hard. she was breathing too hard. “i feel things too,” crier whispered.

“During the journey to the Midwifery, as she sat alone in the carriage, Crier came to a conclusion. Even after everything that had happened, after what Ayla had tried to do. Crier still loved her. Maybe she had loved her ever since the moment Ayla has saved her life on the cliff so many weeks ago.”

the truth of ayla, the pain of her, was like a song you could feel vibrating on the air, even if you didn’t know the words. it was a hum, low and throaty and full of sorrow.

Crier had been Designed. Crier was Made. But in the moment Ayla first touched her, Crier had learned what it felt like to be born.

She had never really seen a pair of eyes like this. It was like standing in the doorway to a dark room, like balancing on a threshold, holding a lantern up and watching how it kissed some things gold and left other things in shadow. It was the kind of dark that hid and held a lot of things. A hot fluid dark, a summer tide pool dark, a wild breathless dark.

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Stop thinking about her. Why was it so hard?

How she wanted to sleep in Crier’s bed again. Or—something. How she hadn’t slept as deeply in months, maybe years, as she had that night. How she hadn’t felt so safe since before that day. That was the power Crier seemed to have over her. Stop thinking about her. Why was it so hard? — Crier’s War // Nina Varela