A place unseen

There was a meadow, once.

A place of light and laughter, of lush green and never night. There were flowers in the tall grass. No weather, in the meadow, for it has never lived in a reality where that is a requirement. There wasn’t even a sky, really. A small world, but big enough for those it housed, who were few enough in number – only three. And they lived and laughed on velvet green.

In the centre of the meadow was a tree. And the tree was very tall, and very old. Its trunk was thicker than all three of them could circle touching hands, even if there were two of each. And its branches reached high. The tree was a world of itself in its size. It was a place of dappled sunlight and hidden nooks. A swing hung from one thick bough, for the laughing child to play on. And a soft nest was tucked inside a hollow in its trunk, for the frightened girl to hide in.

Just one other thing was in the meadow – the stone gazebo, near the edge. It was old, and full of shadows cast by the thick ivy that covered it. Stairs led down to a level below the ground. Only the dark maid knows what was below, for it was her home after she came from the grey.

Oh, have I not yet explained the grey? They grey surrounded the meadow, the top layer of what lay beneath. It started out pale, just marking the boundary where green ceased to be, but deep in the dark it turned to black and the Bad Man lurked. We will not dwell on him, or there.

The laughing child was beautiful and innocent. Very young – perhaps five years old – and the most precious thing the meadow held. She was bright and beautiful, and her name was Summer Dawn. She spent her days playing on her swing and making chains of flowers. She seemed as though she was made of light.

The frightened girl was not so innocent. She had seen much, and been much, and fallen through the dark. She was eighteen, usually, on the cusp of adulthood. Often she had to tend to things outside the meadow’s serene bounds, but whenever she could, she played with the child. She would push Summer’s swing, or perhaps they would roll down hills together or braid flowers into each other’s hair. Her name was Shiyiya, and it meant leaper. And she was afraid of the dark that surrounded.

The dark maid did not play. She largely kept to herself, in her place of shadows and stone. For she had been born in the dark, and the bright innocence of the meadow was not comfortable to her. She better understood cruelty. Her name was Srystyn for the cutting wind, and she was seventeen.

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