In the orchards of Berwick once again, by the farmhouse I would imagine
[/html]Evening grew near, the descending Sun calling for hints of red to blanch the soft blues with heat. He fell towards the tree line, not yet touching their tops. Anu busied herself for the impending darkness and for the lack of summer heat. Even in summer nights there could be a chill in the northern lands. Close to the ocean she felt the water’s wind and a night such as this called for a fire.
An old piece of burlap sat on the ground by the fire pit, a wide seat for her to watch the flames once they built themselves into a vehemenced dance. Aged silver and white fingered arranged the logs, the dried twigs for kindling beneath them and browned grass to catch the spark of flint. She would never have guessed she would treasure rocks, and yet they were so necessary in her current way of life. They kept the night at bay... Anu was not yet ready for the darkness.
By the time she was ready to strike the fire’s birth the Sun was set, the hints of crimson were now soothing pinks that lasted only a moment before being swallowed by blackness. Her fingers held the two parts and struck them together. It was the part she had the most trouble with. She frowned as one fell from her grasp as she gave another attempt. Her hands were strong enough to plant an orchard, to hold a pack together, to claw through the life of a loner and yet they could not hold the stones as the hit against one another to create a tiny tendril of flame.