Free Awaken by Anya Richards

Myrina on his hands and lips and body were not real.
    Grief stricken, he looked to where Myrina stood, swaying slightly amidst the last of the wildflowers. The moon was directly overhead, its rays illuminating the sweet beauty of her face, the soft tilt of her smile. Once more wrapped in her cloak, her body was only a shadowy outline, but he knew every curve and dip, every soft and secret place. Never before had he cared for anyone, loved anyone, as he did her, and the impossibility of that love once more fell on him like a blow.
    In the far recesses of his heart there had been a kernel of hope that Myrina and his love for her would set him free. Now, after sharing intimacy beyond anything he had ever imagined, he knew if she could not save him, he was beyond redemption. And the mourning he had experienced before became no more than the passing of a brief storm in comparison to the everlasting maelstrom of sorrow now waiting.
    “Ryllio—”
    The softness of her voice cut through his agony, but he could not reply. The pain was too deep, too fresh. It filled him with cold, as though the outer stone had finally completed its incursion into his heart and soul, turning him into marble through-and-through.
    Again she called to him, and again, but he made no answer. Hardening his breaking heart, he closed himself away, shutting her out of his mind. Better this way, he thought, as he watched her joy turn first to concern, then anger. And when she turned away and ran from the glade, the sounds of her sobs drove through him like blades of ice.
    In the silence of the forest, Ryllio sat, slowly releasing the last vestiges of humanity, praying for the moment the marble overtook him completely, erasing the grinding, heart-wrenching torture of lost love.

Chapter Eight
    Winter howled into the village like a ravenous wolf, sending stinging ice-clad snow fleeing before a vicious wind. Everyone huddled inside, going out only to tend the animals or complete necessary chores. Myrina at last accepted Goodwife Harbottle’s invitation and, closing up her parents’ house, moved her mother to the Harbottle farm.
    The goodwife was one of her mother’s oldest friends and immediately took over the ailing woman’s care. That was for the best, Myrina realised, for although she tried to act as normal, numbness surrounded her like an impenetrable globe, disconnecting her from everything and everyone. Not even the knowledge her mother was slipping away seemed able to penetrate fully into her heart. It simply added further distance between her and the rest of the world.
    There were decisions she needed to make regarding her future, but the strength of mind necessary to consider them eluded her. The farmer who leased her father’s fields was pressing to buy them, demanding a decision before the following spring. In the past she recalled having strong views on keeping the land, but couldn’t remember why it had seemed so important.
    In truth, Myrina acknowledged, nothing mattered anymore. When she ate, it was because the food lay before her—if she drank it was by rote, her body taking what it needed to survive without asking leave of her mind. There was nothing she wanted or craved—nothing that could move her to more than the slightest smile, the merest frown. After sitting by her sleeping mother’s side for hours on end, she would rise and not be able to recall even one passing thought while she was there.
    The one thing she could not think on at all was the glade and what lay there. On occasion something would bring it to mind—the scent of wild sage clinging to Farmer Harbottle’s coat, a glimpse of the moon, full and glowing, outside the window. At those times Myrina became aware of pain lurking just beyond consciousness, waiting to burst free and devour her. Even as it made her gasp, her mind shied desperately away, hiding once more in the clouds fogging her head.
    She had no memory of her dreams, and for that she was grateful. Some mornings