Aisha
This one - this one is her fault and she knows this. Decades of lectures had echoed, reinforcements of living creatures, of calm fatalities. Undead feels like a rejection of some essential part of a natural circle. She thinks and thinks and why does being dead matter - other than that she's told it matters, always, that the dead should not be remade. And it's change and they're still gross. What's dead should be dead, should not rise with decomposition lining their bones. But Aisha looks alive. Her fingers dangle over her bed, stroke the clay pot that houses her cactus (she named it Annabelle for no reason), she longs to reach out and touch things that lived, and died, and did not try to cheat that death. Hollandaise doesn't hate Aisha... she hates -she's conditioned to hate- what she is.

And Hollandaise also hates the naive part of herself that didn't even see the undead that Aisha is. If she'd known, she would've avoided the ghoul (now, now that she knows her, she misses her). And this, this sort of thing was why they had sent her here - to banish her young ways, to temper her. They had said that Amity could mold her into the warder they needed her to be, but everything here was frightening, confusing, unsafe. Warders lived their lives in their tiny, safe woods. Controlled. Collected. But if she thinks hard enough, how is it different from her own construction? She's made of green and growing things and Aisha is... not.

Once, Gryhthrenwiniari went to another forest, Hollandaise remembers. He came back animated, hands darting here and there as he described wonders. Days passed and he slowed, became still, more tree-like. The elders approved. And then he left again. And did not come back. Maybe not everything in her safe forest was best. But it's hard and she wants to defend her reactions and she cannot stop the tiny shiver that comes when she thinks about them. And Hollandaise had ruined it anyway - was there a point in trying? That's all she can do, though, try.


Van
This one isn't her fault - is it? Hollandaise had barely spoken to him, but she knew. She knew who was hiding in the shadows and made the lights flicker and broke into every space she could think to call home and made it his. Hollandaise hates him, is afraid in a way she's never had to deal with before. And it's this that pushes her into panic. Perhaps if she'd tried harder, been some sort of ideal student, he would not have chosen her. Hollandaise has become used to the taste of fear on her tongue.

She shivers and waits and thinks that maybe the lights will flicker now, now that's she's alone. But they don't. They never do when she might expect it. Hollandaise sighs and tries to ignore the words scrawled on her door. And she tries to sort out her thoughts on this, but it's the fact that she can't see a solution that scares her. Her breathing comes a little faster and she can't help that her eyes dart out the window to check for shadows. She forces herself to stop thinking about it at all.


The Elders
She writes them a letter. Her fingers shake but she forces them still, the letters as neat, as perfect as usual. The rhythmic tap tap tap of the pen on her desk as she tries to find words calm enough for trees is soothing. Orderly. She signs her name and then, she waits.


The Reply
They see through her; they always do. When the reply comes, and it's so, so much quicker than she expected, it's as dry and impersonal as a stranger's pleasantries. The lettering is mirror to her own, but they don't sign it or write her name and she wonders if she's being erased.

These issues are a trial to your adulthood. They are your own; deal with them. We can offer you no counsel.

Do not write again is not said, but it is implied. Carefully, she folds the letter and places it in her desk drawer. the skin around her eyes feels tight.


Deszeld
This one is the only steady thing in her life. Deszeld: forceful, pushy, a ghoul who doesn't care about personal space. It's kind of frightening how immediate everything is to the dragon. She is strong, stronger than Hollandaise, but even her hardest emotions fade quickly. Trees remember; trees do not forget. Deszeld lives day-to-day and somehow, she finds that fact comforting. Hollandaise is willing to put up with anything Des might do for the comfort she feels in that green green room.

"I will not let anyone bring harm upon you, do you understand, Hollandaise?"

She understood. Hollandaise knows it's an empty promise, one that can't possibly be kept - no one is really safe, after all. But she wraps Deszeld's words around her like a blanket. It's nice to pretend. And so, with armor in place, she knows that when she opens the door to greet the morning, her face will be composed, cool, collected. At least for now. She would figure out something, somehow. She had to. Warders did not give up. Take things slowly.

Compartmentalize.