Elsa has been dreaming of her father a lot lately.
What would he have thought of this? He had died on a sea voyage. The idea of a voyage in the stars, in a ship like a floating palace, would have stretched his imagination even more than it did Elsa's, even though he also had experience with trolls and magic. He would have compared it to heaven, but she has seen enough to know that this couldn't be heaven -- if anything, it seems purgatorial. If he were here, she's sure he would join the people who have made leaders of themselves; he would be calm and firm and reassuring.
It had taken her some time to come to terms with his death, and for a while, she had been angry with him and with her mother, for all the burdens they had left her with and for leaving her at all. Now she misses them both terribly.
Her reverie is interrupted when she realizes that she's not alone in this part of the oxygen gardens. A small man, apparently a youth, is in the path ahead, kneeling by a patch of flowers. She can tell that the flowers aren't crocuses, but she's not sure what they are.
"Hello," she essays, and can hear how uncertain she sounds, so she both smiles and makes sure that there's more strength in her low, dry voice before she continues to speak. "It's lovely here, isn't it? I brought one of these." She hefts the small reader that she carries tucked under one arm.
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What would he have thought of this? He had died on a sea voyage. The idea of a voyage in the stars, in a ship like a floating palace, would have stretched his imagination even more than it did Elsa's, even though he also had experience with trolls and magic. He would have compared it to heaven, but she has seen enough to know that this couldn't be heaven -- if anything, it seems purgatorial. If he were here, she's sure he would join the people who have made leaders of themselves; he would be calm and firm and reassuring.
It had taken her some time to come to terms with his death, and for a while, she had been angry with him and with her mother, for all the burdens they had left her with and for leaving her at all. Now she misses them both terribly.
Her reverie is interrupted when she realizes that she's not alone in this part of the oxygen gardens. A small man, apparently a youth, is in the path ahead, kneeling by a patch of flowers. She can tell that the flowers aren't crocuses, but she's not sure what they are.
"Hello," she essays, and can hear how uncertain she sounds, so she both smiles and makes sure that there's more strength in her low, dry voice before she continues to speak. "It's lovely here, isn't it? I brought one of these." She hefts the small reader that she carries tucked under one arm.