Kin Name: Atone
Drabble: She wasn’t a saint—never had been, never would be—so it came as no surprise that she was, more often than not, a destructive force. She had been innocent once, lifetimes ago, and that had been manipulated into ending, knowingly and unknowingly, until she accepted that life was out to punish her. And if she was going to be punished, she may as well deserve it. A hard thing to come back from, impossible really, as everything seemed to be an irritation or a nuisance. It had not taken long for her to search out a safe haven. A secret she shared with no one (not that there was a single soul to share it with). Atone, for all her faults, was gifted.
In the heart of a section of the swamp that had been given more to rot than growth, she had cultivated out a glade. The ground had been dug at for weeks, near even a month, until the firmness had become soft. Fallen trees that were so delicate they crumbled at her touch were broken into the soil to become mulch. And when it was ready, she had let it sit. She had bid her time and after much thought, she had sought out a sapling to transplant.
It had been tall but not at all strong. Indeed, her sharp eyes had noticed it was ill. With carefulness that belied her penchant for death, she had dug the specimen up and ever so gently taken it to her haven. In the center of the glade, she planted it. (Now, almost three years past it had blossomed into a fine fruit-bearing apple tree.)
After that, she had with great attention to detail plotted out each future section. Sunlight was not an issue and neither was water—provided she was there to fetch it—but she would not always be and so she had to choose sturdier specimens than the more fragile plants that some kin may favor. If she could get them through the first year, they’d likely be able to be left alone without concern. Unless some catastrophe happened, she’d narrowed her eyes at the thought. (She’d kill him if he came here.)
At the borders, she’d cultivated an outer circle of maiden grass. It grew quite tall and wide to lessen the view into her sanctuary. After that she’d used a plant called angel wings to line the three paths that led to her prized apple tree. Snowmound and lily of the valley plants had done some much filling in, followed by snapdragon and daylilies. The last two plants she’d introduced were quite common: lavender and, a certain strain of, holly. The completion had been nothing more than a small breather as she’d still had much work to make sure each grew.
Now—the summer coming would mark the third year since its creation—it flourished. Perfumed year-round and enveloped in a sea of colors, she felt some semblance of peace that she had known since she was born the first time. It saddened her, to know, that when she died it would become overgrown and may even follow her. That was a worry for another day; spring would be coming in two cycles of the moon, near about, and she’d need to trim and weed lest all the hard work was choked. And despite her destructive-streak being more than wide enough to swallow the swamp, in this place, only her gift as a grower, cultivating creation, was nurtured. (It helped that all the nuisances were picked clean and left to the birds.)