Seeing the L i g h t

She lay, curled among them, legs drawn close so as not to disturb or flatten fragile stems. Her pelt was white with that of the devout, small fin antlers adorned her head. Blonde hair fell beside her, framing a small face that wore a mask doing little to conceal it. It disclosed delicate features, bearing an odd expression of uncertain peace. She was asleep, oblivious to the world beyond her own mind.

Of course they saw nothing of this, these unnecessary details. The poppies do not see things as we do. To them she was simply a bright shape, a light that slept among them. This one was different. Most others were simply shadows, dim figures other than the halos they carried with them. They blocked the sun, tramping underfoot, sometimes tearing flowers from the ground for their own vanity.
She was light, she shone.

Not as bright as the sun, but closer.

Nor was the doe the first to walk among them as such. But still she was not the same. She spoke with them, came among them without hurting them. And so they spoke back.

The poppies do not see as we do. But they heard, oh so many things. They heard words of love, words of hate, foolishness and wisdom. All the same. What use are such to those rooted to one spot, seeking nothing but what allows them to live? Short life, but life all the same. No need for pondering the greater meaning. And yet they never forgot.

They were aware of how they were seen. Sometimes pretty, decoration for the crown of a young fawn or the antlers of the adult. But to others they were a symbol of death. Blood red petals that seemed to remind some of what would rather be forgotten. This was not disturbing to them. Perhaps accurate, for short-lived as they were, they had a close relationship with death. Perhaps it would drive the doe away though. She feared death, the greatest shadow of them all.

So they kept it to themselves. But they could not hide their own ends. When ever a poppy fell, she would cry. They told her it was not necessary, that soon another would open to take it's place. That just made her cry more.

But still they shared with her, anything, whatever it took to keep her near. She was a curious creature, a strange mix of a desire to learn and fear of what she might. If they had possessed feelings, they would have perhaps cared for her.

Something was about to happen. The doe was teetering on the edge, ready at any moment to fall. A change had been creeping up lately, they had heard it in her voice. At the moment the confusion was held at bay, thanks to her fear, but she could not remain in this state of uncertainty. They spoke to her more now, tried to make her forget. But she was more like them then they thought. She could not forget.

Once they had lost track of her. She had lost her light, become another shadow. Wandering aimlessly, as if in fog, speaking to them little. The forest seemed darker, even among others. Such is the effect of death upon those who would live long. But at last she returned to them.

They would not let her go again.
________________

Hm, something I wanted to write.
This confirms nothing about the poppies, however everything describing Iendoe and her current state of mind is accurate.
Feedback and constructive critique welcome ♥