Silent Lamentations

Sick on my journey,

Only my dreams will wander,

These desolate moons

---

The morning mist clung to the air like a memory, half-formed and unwilling to dissipate. Shiki's steps were silent as she walked the narrow path winding through that garden of desolation, her ceremonial attire swaying lightly in the breeze. The faint rustling of the willows, their gnarled branches heavy with sorrow, accompanied her like an old hymn. The dragonborn paused before one tree, its bark darker than the others, as though charred by ancient grief. Her gaze drifted to the faint contours of an orcish face - half-hidden among the ridges of wood, an eternal expression of anguish locked within. For a moment, her fingers twitched toward the dagger at her side, an instinctive gesture born of habits long since abandoned. She let her clawed hand fall back to her side.
"It has been quiet today," she murmured to an audience of none. Perhaps that was for the best.
A crow alighted on a low branch, its beady eyes watching her as she knelt to examine the soil near the tree's base. The earth here was always restless, trembling faintly as though it still remembered the weight of those unjustly buried. Shiki pressed her palm against the ground, her touch gentle but firm. May the Azure receive of you one day, she whispered. The tremor softened, though it never truly ceased.
The crow cawed once, breaking the spell of silence. Shiki looked up, meeting its gaze, then at her palm - thumbing a pale seed meant for her own garden. "It’s yours if you want it," she said, tossing the seed on the soil. The bird tilted its head, then hopped down to retrieve the offering, disappearing into the fog moments later.
Her duties continued without pause. She moved to another tree, this one draped in ribbons left by mourners from Memorial. The ribbons, bright once, had faded to muted pastels over time. Shiki brushed her fingers across one, the fabric coarse and fragile. A note was tied to it, the ink smudged but legible enough to read: Forgive me.
She did not linger. Forgiveness was a concept she had no power to grant. Instead, she turned her attention to a grove at the far edge of the garden, where the willows grew thinner, their branches stretching upward as if yearning for freedom. Here, the air was heavier, the weight of the garden’s curse more palpable. Shiki felt it settle around her shoulders like an old cloak, familiar and unwelcome.
As she began her cleansing rites, the faint sound of footsteps reached her ears. Her hand instinctively brushed the hilt of her dagger, but she relaxed; it was Father Nolreath, carrying an offering basket. His robes were damp, and his breath came in shallow puffs as he approached.
"Lady Shiki," he greeted, his voice trembling slightly. "I’ve brought the… the incense, as requested."
She nodded in acknowledgment, taking the basket from him. "Good. The garden will be better for it, though you really needn't travel this far out." Her voice was even, devoid of warmth but not unkind.
The priest hesitated, his gaze darting toward the willows. "Do you ever… hear them?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Shiki’s grip on the basket tightened slightly, but her expression remained unreadable. "Always," she replied. Then, more softly, "And so will you, if you stay too long."
The priest bowed quickly, muttered a blessing, and retreated into the fog. Shiki stood alone once more, the faint echoes of his footsteps fading like ripples on a still pond.
As the day waned, the mist began to thin, and the willows cast long shadows across the garden. Shiki leaned against one of the older trees, her eyes half-lidded as she listened to the quiet murmurs carried on the breeze. The voices from this one is faint but constant, softly regaling a tale of selfish wants born from everlasting regrets.
The Garden of Sinners did not weep for itself. Silent lamentations and prayers of hope echo soundlessly, adrift and alone in this lifeless land. A fitting place for one such as she.
When the last light of the sun slipped behind the horizon, Shiki rose to her feet and began the slow walk back to her cabin at the garden’s edge. The crow returned, a new seed clutched in its beak. It settled on her shoulder, quiet and still, as if sharing in the silence that followed her every step.