The Weight of Distance

Fiction

To Elias, The bind snapped three days ago. It was a clean break, though the skin at the base of my neck remains bruised and tender. I am currently resting at the Low Marshes. The humidity here is high, but my skin feels tight, as if the salt is already attempting to migrate back to the surface. I can still taste the brine in my sleep. I will reach the Vales by the next moon. Love, Mara. *** To Elias, I am in the Dust-Plain now. The crystallization has reached my joints. I wake up with white flakes on my sheets; they look like frost, but they taste of the deep coast. My voice is thinning. When I spoke to the innkeeper yesterday, he asked why I sounded like wind through a hollow reed. I have forgotten the specific shade of the shutters on our childhood home. I think they were blue, or perhaps a grey that looked like blue in the morning light. Love, Mara. *** To Elias, I can see the peaks. My fingers are stiff; the salt has claimed the knuckles and the nailbeds. I cannot remember the sound of the tide, only the fact that it once existed. My throat is a dry well. I do not remember the reason I left, but I know you are here. I am coming to find the piece of me that I left with you. M.