(Book One in the Celestial series)
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She didn't remember much of her former life---except for perhaps the cool scent of the ocean breeze as it filled her nose, or the hard-set lines of her brother's face, maybe even the tune her mother had used to...
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"Did you really think she was a tender flower you could trample upon, and damage her very soul? She is wildfire. And she is coming to devour you whole."
THEY ALL WOKE AT DAWN. Roach and Celaena's group at least. Endovier had slaves working day and night, switching off once the sun set and rose. Hours, upon hours, and their only reprieve was when the second wave of people swooped in and took their pickaxes from their bloody, calloused hands.
Roach remembered the feeling, the relief and dread that followed someone taking the tool from her grasp. It was a knee wobbling sort of thing, that reprieve. And for a moment it was always blissful. Sleep always found her quickly, and she was so exhausted that she never dreamed.
But then it all began again. And the dread set in. The realization that the loop was infinite was always the hardest to deal with. The fact that she might feel relief then, only for it to repeat again.
Roach and Celaena were unfortunate enough to be in the day group.
Over the years, Roach found that working into the night was always best. The heat was never as blistering, and thus the time always went quicker without the threat of dehydration.
That threat loomed today as Roach held a pickaxe in her hand for the first time in a month, her own callouses fitted around it perfectly after years of worked perfection. She hacked at the gray stone tirelessly, forcing her mind not to think of the task at hand, but rather wander into other things.
Her back ached, the fresh wounds from yesterday beginning to rip and tear again as she swung the tool without fail. She tried not to focus on it, tried to tell herself that if she worked today, if she met her "quota" then by the next time of night there would not be new lashings over those.
Roach distracted herself. Imagined scenarios, lived in them. Just as she did when they stuck her within the dark, looming pits of the mountain.
Today, she imagined sitting by the ocean, tipping her head back to the sky as a mist settled on her skin. Roach imagined the breeze pulling her hair to the North, and needing to blink tirelessly as the sun filtered into her gaze.
Instead of her brother, her mother was with her. Her kind words echoing in Roach's ears.
She didn't remember her mother's face, nor her name, but she remembered her voice. The way she hummed throughout the day, and sang when she was gleeful. Roach remembered the unbridled was she laughed, and how she spoke with such kindness it was a wonder.
They spoke of Roach's imaginary life. Of her day at the market, and a male she'd met the day before. It was a peaceful place to be, and one that Roach imagined living in often.
Often, she hated her own mind. Wished it might leave her alone and allow her a moment of nothingness. Yet it was moments like those where she cherished her thoughts, her memories, and imaginings.
