Mother of the River

In her hands is a familiar presence. It's always a familiar presence in her hands; every last drop of soul has been spun from her own and dropped in the river to live and return. Save for the ones that were not.

This one is - was - a follower of Storms; she can feel it in the tingles that run through her palms. It was a farmer, living where the people waited and relied on Storms' yearly grieving. Before, it was a seamstress that worshiped the burnt effigy Empathy left behind.

Her basket is empty.

Before it was a fisherman that believed only in the sea and the home it returned to. Before it was an inventor. Before it was a shoe cobbler that became a duke. Before it was-

She cannot recall.

It goes into her basket.

The river ripples; she's picked up another. It caught her eye; bright, light and cheery and burning and vibrating and shrieking and - it must have been one of Night Light's creations. Been one of those who bled light before it was a hunter, before it was a mother, before it was a writer of love stories, before it was

It matters not. She can remember what it first was; it returns to the river, and the river kisses her fingers as it takes it back.

Her basket is empty. She cannot please everything at all times.

The river splashes; she's picked up another. This one is tired. It wants rest. It was a musician who slayed itself by its own hand after being spurned by a lover. Before it was a conductor who worried over its orchestra like a parent. Before it was a watchperson who always remembered the disturbance no matter how small. Before it was a knight who's only wish was to protect. Before it was a child who died to flu. Before it was a magician. Before it was something that sprayed crimson across history pages. Before it was a brother who was betrayed, who watched and warned, and was afraid and spoke and none ever listened to him he spoke of a thousand reckonings and saw a thousand of thousand more he wished only for an ear and now release he wishes release this flesh is tiring and my soul is melting you dont have time i dont have time none of us has time cycles ends

Her basket is empty. This is a soul she cannot feed to it.

She has stopped her weeping long ago; this soul in her hands has only ever wept back, and it helps nothing.

Life tucks her old friend's soul into her sleeve. The next life for this one had to be handled personally. It always was handled personally for him; it was the least she owed for him, its the least she owes for all of them, for what her job now is.

She has long stopped thinking "this time it will be the right one!". It's a mockery, and a taunt, at this point, and they all deserve them none. She puts the sentiments in her hands instead. Its the least she owed; to him, to them all.

None of them ever listened to him. But he had been cordial with Night Light. This time, he will emerge from a leyline from under sands and be raised to look to the stars for answers. She will weave stardust into his veins plaster visions to his eyelids commingle his worry with needs be to look forward, and rejoin the living.

Her basket is empty. The river is empty. She cannot please both.

Life reaches for another soul.