hiraeth solo

location	; owlery.	date	; xx/09/25
wc	; 421	ooc notes	; none.

Hiraeth.

(n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past. Estella found the word perched on a worn leather seat in the library, breezing through a dictionary of all things to read. It was an unusual habit, even more so for the young troublemaker. Late afternoon, dusk teasing to spill over, and the witch had too much free time. Venturing to the library was something she wanted to do since the day she arrived, but she found herself locked in her dorm without much of the adventures she expected from Hogwarts. But really, it was her own fault. Socializing was one of her fortes, something she prided herself on even. But in one dawn, all her mastered expertise seemed to simply evaporate. Her days were shriveled down to lessons and homework. Potions and parchments. Was this magic?

And finally, finally, the witch received her long yearned moments of leisure. And Merlin knows why, she went to the library. Ironic really, but she was soon settled snugly, reading the dictionary. That's when she found the word. Words were so viscerally significant to her, it had such an utmost power over her. They could make her revisit memories of flushed joy, of searing, sour, pain. And the particular word took her on a nostalgically painful trip to the Cain Manor. She was reminded of cauldrons exploding by another stupid thing she did, sunsets with notes of affection and amber, teas with her grandmother's prophecies and nightly strolls along tangled woods. Stars, she missed it. Is this what you call homesickness?

By the time she returned to the library, dusk had bled into the windows, seeping into her skin. It was painful, almost. Solitude mixed with longing was a concoction she would rather not take. Before twilight could settle, she stood with resolute thoughts, a decision. She let her hands linger for the shortest minute, tracing the word almost to memory. She would write a letter.

It was surprising, really, that she didn't do this much earlier. For the umpteenth time, she read it over. Why was she even seeking perfection? Sighing, she clutched it, then with a nonchalance that she did not possess strolled to post it. The letter contained all her petty woes and distress, unfamiliar solitude, and grudging longing. It was relieving, like Atlas could finally halt his bearing of the sky. She wished the reply wouldn't take too long.

—THROUGH THE SINS OF THEIR FATHERS COMMITTED LONG BEFORE THEIR CONCEPTION.

—mentions

; n/a.

outfit

; gryff uniform.