Liin Terallo
Freedom for New Cov!
The sea was calmer here than it had any right to be. From the window of the small house overlooking Rugosa's endless blue horizon, I watched the tide advance and retreat against the pale shoreline with a patience that only nature seemed capable of possessing. Every wave surrendered itself willingly before returning again moments later; as though failure had never frightened it in the first place.
I envied that.
A mug of tea rested forgotten between my hands, it's warmth slowly fading while morning sunlight spilled across the wooden floor. Somewhere outside, seabirds argued over something I could neither see nor understand. The little biomass creature Mr. Usher had insisted I keep fluttered lazily between the rafters before eventually deciding that the windowsill offered a better vantage point than that of my shoulder. "You've become rather fond of this place," I murmured.
It answered with an inquisitive chirp.
"So have I." That admission surprised me. Rugosa asked remarkably little of anyone. There were no laboratories demanding impossible breakthroughs. No board meetings. No bounty hunters peering suspiciously through crowded streets. No constant need to measure every conversation for hidden motives. It was simply quiet. I had almost forgotten what quiet sounded like. Almost. Because silence had an unfortunate habit of making room for memory.
My thoughts drifted, as they so often did, toward New Cov. Toward home. I wondered what my Mother and Father were doing today. Whether the streets still looked the same. Whether the old market still opened each morning beneath foreign banners instead of our own. Whether children who had been born after the occupation even knew what independence had looked like. I hoped that they did. Yet I feared that they didn't.
A knot settled quietly within my chest. There were mornings when every sensible part of me wanted to board the first transport home. To stand beside my family. To do something; anything, other than wait. But wanting and helping had become two very different things. If I returned to New Cov now; I would accomplish nothing beyond placing another target inside occupied territory.
The resistance needed allies, resources and political support. The sort of assistance that could only be gathered beyond New Cov's borders. That was my responsibility now. I reminded myself of it every day. But it did not make the waiting any easier.
My gaze remained fixed upon the horizon, though I was no longer seeing the ocean. Years ago, I had convinced myself that my future belonged among research facilities and corporate laboratories. I had believed that if I worked hard enough, discovered enough, accomplished enough, then somehow it would all benefit my people in the end.
But instead.... I had been absent when my world needed every voice it could find. I had chosen my career, and New Cov had paid the price. No matter how many people insisted the occupation had not been my fault, some part of me refused to believe them. Regret was rarely interested in fairness. It cared only for possibilities. For all of the things that might have happened differently if only one choice had changed.
I took a slow sip of tea that had long since grown lukewarm. "I won't make that mistake again," I whispered to the empty room. The words were not spoken as a promise to anyone else. Only to myself.
Outside, another wave rolled gently onto the shore before retreating once more, both patient and persistent. Waiting for it's moment to return. Just like me...
Tag:
Aurelian Sigismund
I envied that.
A mug of tea rested forgotten between my hands, it's warmth slowly fading while morning sunlight spilled across the wooden floor. Somewhere outside, seabirds argued over something I could neither see nor understand. The little biomass creature Mr. Usher had insisted I keep fluttered lazily between the rafters before eventually deciding that the windowsill offered a better vantage point than that of my shoulder. "You've become rather fond of this place," I murmured.
It answered with an inquisitive chirp.
"So have I." That admission surprised me. Rugosa asked remarkably little of anyone. There were no laboratories demanding impossible breakthroughs. No board meetings. No bounty hunters peering suspiciously through crowded streets. No constant need to measure every conversation for hidden motives. It was simply quiet. I had almost forgotten what quiet sounded like. Almost. Because silence had an unfortunate habit of making room for memory.
My thoughts drifted, as they so often did, toward New Cov. Toward home. I wondered what my Mother and Father were doing today. Whether the streets still looked the same. Whether the old market still opened each morning beneath foreign banners instead of our own. Whether children who had been born after the occupation even knew what independence had looked like. I hoped that they did. Yet I feared that they didn't.
A knot settled quietly within my chest. There were mornings when every sensible part of me wanted to board the first transport home. To stand beside my family. To do something; anything, other than wait. But wanting and helping had become two very different things. If I returned to New Cov now; I would accomplish nothing beyond placing another target inside occupied territory.
The resistance needed allies, resources and political support. The sort of assistance that could only be gathered beyond New Cov's borders. That was my responsibility now. I reminded myself of it every day. But it did not make the waiting any easier.
My gaze remained fixed upon the horizon, though I was no longer seeing the ocean. Years ago, I had convinced myself that my future belonged among research facilities and corporate laboratories. I had believed that if I worked hard enough, discovered enough, accomplished enough, then somehow it would all benefit my people in the end.
But instead.... I had been absent when my world needed every voice it could find. I had chosen my career, and New Cov had paid the price. No matter how many people insisted the occupation had not been my fault, some part of me refused to believe them. Regret was rarely interested in fairness. It cared only for possibilities. For all of the things that might have happened differently if only one choice had changed.
I took a slow sip of tea that had long since grown lukewarm. "I won't make that mistake again," I whispered to the empty room. The words were not spoken as a promise to anyone else. Only to myself.
Outside, another wave rolled gently onto the shore before retreating once more, both patient and persistent. Waiting for it's moment to return. Just like me...
Tag:
Aurelian Sigismund
