βLove never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.β
Her husband, her children, her home. Friends, family. Hope. Every last shred of what she held most dear was torn from her soul and she was left clinging to life with a broken heart, as if hanging on by bare fingertips. Hidden away in a remote village on an even more remote planet in the Outer Rim, she couldn't be farther from Naboo and Coruscant, from anything that reminded her of what she'd lost...
Everything reminded her. Each morning when she woke alone in the small bed rolled out upon the worn stone floor. When she walked the hour to the nearby village and saw the mothers carrying children while they worked. When she returned home from a long day of work to continue toiling by firelight. When she cried herself to sleep and prayed to the gods of Naboo that her children were safe. Each day that passed was like a thousand.
Each day that passed was harder than the last, and all that kept her going was a singular thought, a possibility that may never take shape: One day, her children might need her.
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Her husband, her children, her home. Friends, family. Hope. Every last shred of what she held most dear was torn from her soul and she was left clinging to life with a broken heart, as if hanging on by bare fingertips. Hidden away in a remote village on an even more remote planet in the Outer Rim, she couldn't be farther from Naboo and Coruscant, from anything that reminded her of what she'd lost...
Everything reminded her. Each morning when she woke alone in the small bed rolled out upon the worn stone floor. When she walked the hour to the nearby village and saw the mothers carrying children while they worked. When she returned home from a long day of work to continue toiling by firelight. When she cried herself to sleep and prayed to the gods of Naboo that her children were safe. Each day that passed was like a thousand.
Each day that passed was harder than the last, and all that kept her going was a singular thought, a possibility that may never take shape: One day, her children might need her.