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The sharp crack of splitting wood filled the yard, again and again, as Merrin worked through the small pile she had gathered. She mused to herself that it seemed odd how cutting wood sometimes sounded the same as burning it, but then came to the conclusion that it was perfectly natural. After all, fire or iron, both were destruction, and all destruction had the same sound. These were the thoughts she allowed herself to think as she hefted the ax up merely to bring it back down again with another crack. There were other thoughts though. Thoughts she didn't dare give words to, even in her mind. Thoughts that thrummed like the sound of an oversized drum throughout her musings. Thoughts that kindled and died at the edges of her mind as her eyes glanced towards an empty horizon, seeking what was not there.

Merrin carried an arms' full of chopped wood into her family's home, slipping in through the door with care as if she might let something out, and moved to the fireplace. Practiced hands stacked the wood with care; preparations for the ever-coming night. She sat back onto the rug of woven grass and admired her handiwork. It was a very familiar feeling: her, sitting on that rug, the fireplace before her, her parents seated in their chairs behind her. No fire in the fireplace now though, and the room was cool.

She let those memories sink back into the recesses they came from and busied herself with cleaning. She swept the floors, dusted the shelves, and took the pot down to the river to scrub it as clean as it would get, filling it partway for the soup she would later make. She took the rug out and beat it clean, settling it in front of that fireplace once more. She looked around, trying to find something else to do, and failed. She liked the mornings. Mornings were filled with purpose, with work. They gave her something to do, gave her an excuse to not thing of anything but the job right in front of her. Then the work was done, the excuses were gone, and she was forced to remember.

Merrin changed her clothes, out of the dusty, worn ones for that work, and into clean ones, far more vibrant in color and beautiful to look at. A simple blue dress, with a bouquet of white wildflowers stitched at one hip, and a stark white shirt with long sleeves beneath. It was supposed to be for showing off. Clothes to go into town in, to meet new people in, to go to worship in, but there wasn't much of that for her these days. Then she pulled out a long, yellow dress with an identical stitching of the flowers at the hip, nearly identical to her own save for color and that this dress was far too large for her. It wasn't for her, though. She carried it almost reverently to the nearby cot, tucked into the corner of the room, large enough for three people across but bearing only one.

The still form of her mother remained nestled there, upon the straw mattress, unmoving. Merrin reached out and touched her arm, finding it still warm, but almost hoping it wouldn't be. It was awkward, always awkward, shifting the limbs and torso, working the dress over her insensate body, but before too long she lay there in her yellow dress, peacefully in a sleep that wouldn't end. As always, Merrin climbed up onto the mattress beside her. As always, she pulled her mother's arm around her shoulders, nestling in next to her and clutching her tight. As always, she buried her face into that yellow cloth, heavy with the scent of the woman who wore it, and stained it with her tears.