[ In everything she sees metaphors made literal. A single bloom at the cost of a life, or so she understands it. To have the flower rest amid the tangle of her hair is to be the bloom or the vine that once held it. So what does it mean? Later, she tells herself, now she needs to think and do and not linger.
Senua holds his hand lightly, ready to let go should he hesitate. She does it with such ceremony, this giving of a gift that she fetches slowly from the worn pouch at her hip, before placing the small object against his palm, covered by both her hands. She dithers first, unsure if she is willing to part with something so important and also wary of his disapproval for a thing so worthless. ]
This will show you the way. It will speak to you.
[ Then, finally, she removes her hand to let him see: an angular twig with its surface worn smooth from too much handling. It is what it is: a small dead branch. There is no magic in it save what her mind imbues it. ]
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Senua holds his hand lightly, ready to let go should he hesitate. She does it with such ceremony, this giving of a gift that she fetches slowly from the worn pouch at her hip, before placing the small object against his palm, covered by both her hands. She dithers first, unsure if she is willing to part with something so important and also wary of his disapproval for a thing so worthless. ]
This will show you the way. It will speak to you.
[ Then, finally, she removes her hand to let him see: an angular twig with its surface worn smooth from too much handling. It is what it is: a small dead branch. There is no magic in it save what her mind imbues it. ]