Lily has written this piece as part of writing extension.

The air was thick and cold and tendrils of mist were seeping through the trees. Above, the sky was a pearly marbled white. A droplet of water slid off a leaf and fell to the damp soil. The towering trees creaked softly, their shiny green leaves fading orange and gold. Drip. Drip. The harsh air carried a rich earthy scent. All was still,

calm,

waiting.

A girl’s ragged breathing and heavy footfalls banished the quiet. A few birds took flight in a flurry of feathers and Elizabeth Hawthorn pounded through the trees. Her head was down and her face, when it was not obscured by a curtain of pale brown hair, was white and strained. The wind whispered to the swaying trees. A snaking hand of mist stroked her shoulder blades but the girl rushed on. Harder and harder she ran, oblivious to the harsh woods around her. Twigs snagged her uniform and the wind tousled her hair, but not once did she stop to catch her breath, or to stem her streaming eyes. Branches barred her path but the girl wrenched through them; she stumbled over roots but did not waver, just ran as though the hounds of sin were hot on her trail, craving a long deep drink of her sanity. A bird trilled as the girl barreled through the woods, her breath rasping and dry. The darkening sky sighed mournfully. Desperation flowed hot in her veins but the girl was faltering. The trees creaked wearily. The pain in her legs was immense; the girl was weakening steadily, gasping, fighting, urging, wheezing, choking -

The mist oozed into the clearing where Elizabeth Hawthorn collapsed.

Over the roots of a huge gnarled oak her body was sprawled, on the ground but breathing faintly. The cool air was still and scented of sap. With one final, intense effort, the girl shakily raised her hand and clutched the weathered bark of the great tree. Her breathing shallowed even further.

An ancient magic rippled through the clearing.

Through failing lips Elizabeth spoke.

‘’ Let… me… leave…’’

And so a magic more powerful than all the stars, older than all the planets and greater than all the suns, the magic that glitters in a bubbling spring, that glows in a dancing fire, the magic that opens the flowers and sprinkles the snowflakes, the most precious magic of all,

let her rest.

Her soul was freed from its mortal cage, no longer burdened with the weight of the world.

Her lifeless body sank into the earth, no longer chained to demands of reality.

And when thick clouds cleared, far above, a new star shone brightly into the velvet night.

Elizabeth Hawthorn’s star.