What's Good; What's Left - pt i

“It seems that, no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps wandering back to the Meadow,” she confessed. 

The hour was coming to an end. Vesta sat in a small, comfortable room across from Ponder, her therapist. Why did clients wait until near the end of session to bring up the most important issues? They’d spent the last fifty or so minutes discussing the highs and lows of social media fame; of Ponder listening as Vesta complained about how difficult it was to find good musicians that understood her “vibe”; he tried not to allow her to redirect the conversation whenever he’d bring up the Heavenly Meadow point-blank, but she was so skilled a conversationalist, he found himself wrapped up in a different matter entirely instead.

“Why do you think that is?” Ponder inquired. Even though there wasn’t a whole lot of time left, he figured he could maybe assign her some homework, or something.

“I don’t know,” Vesta answered. “I left because I was unhappy there. I try not to think about it.”

Ponder nodded. “Well, throughout our time together, you’ve mentioned thinking about the Meadow a lot. Redirection tools haven’t helped… maybe we should talk about your time there.”

“I don’t want to do that. I left. I never want to think about that place again.”

“We don’t have to do it today,” he assured her, “but give yourself the space to indulge your emotions. Maybe you need to find closure, however it may come.”

“How much more closure could I possibly need? I jumped down a hole into Hell, forever.”

Ponder chuckled. “True. Well, the brain is funny in that way. Maybe you can head up to the Heavenly Embassy and figure out some sort of closure there. Make that your homework assignment for next session– tell me about it when we meet again in two weeks. That’s our time.”

Vesta closed her eyes and nodded appreciatively, like she always did.

She could not believe she was actually doing this.

Vesta stood in the Heavenly Embassy. Was she nervous? Sort of. Maybe more awkward than anxious. The scenery was sort of familiar; the aesthetics felt like home. Home. The sentiment made her guts feel weird. The Meadow had never been her home… Ugh. She should just turn around and pretend as though she’d never been in the first place; hire a new therapist that wouldn’t encourage her to confront her problems head-on…

She eased her way forward, mostly wandering aimlessly. She could head towards the shops and restaurants, maybe, but she didn’t feel like dealing with the public– she was pretty popular, and was one of the first cherubuns to leverage that fact about her to achieve fame– especially since other cherubuns tended to be her worst critics. 

Vesta eventually found herself standing outside of a greenhouse. Inside, large statues of the virtues stood. Someone was hunched over a flowerbed on their hands and knees. When she approached, she discovered it to be none other than Primrose. She was broadly aware of his existence, but she wondered whether he was aware of hers. If reputation alone was something to go by, she hoped desperately that he did not know.

Primrose turned his head up when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He sat up, minding his dirty gloves as he tried not to stain his white outfit. A cherubun he’d seldom seen was gazing lazily over his greenhouse. He let out a small breath of relief, having tensed up for a moment; succubuns tended to be so noisy. Someone that actually understood the environment was always welcome.

“Hello,” he greeted. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“My therapist told me to come here,” Vesta answered flatly.

“Oh.” Primrose wasn’t sure what to say to that. Did she want him to pry? Well, he wasn’t going to. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you.”

Primrose went back to work, figuring that was that. Vesta sat down on a bench not too far away, watching him garden. She’d never had much of a green thumb– Melangel was always on her case about it. She closed her eyes and exhaled; her little ritual for ridding herself of memories like those. Then she remembered what she was supposed to be working on.

“How did you stop thinking about it?” Vesta asked, breaking the contemplative silence.

“About what?” Primrose answered. 

“The Meadow.”

Primrose offered a short laugh. “I suppose I haven’t. I can’t, really; I run the Embassy. I tend to the flowers, and I’m one of the few people around that knows how to nurture ambrosia in the way it needs.”

Vesta sighed. That was unhelpful. And, frankly, stupid– why would anyone choose to fall, only to surround themself with exactly the things that they were trying to get away from?

“Though, my situation is different from most,” Primrose continued. “I chose to fall because I wanted to help the cherubuns adjust to Burrowgatory, but I do understand that most others were miserable in the Heavenly Meadow. So, what, then? Everything you experienced up until you left was terrible?”

“Pretty much.” 

“There are no good moments from when you were a child? When you helped a friend? When you gardened or sang hymns or anything else?”

Vesta shrugged. “I don’t want to think about the Meadow. It was in the past, and I’m here, now. There's no going back.”

“Why come to the Embassy at all?”

“I…” She faltered. She wasn’t keen to pour her heart out to some stranger. “It just… stays on my mind. No matter what I do, it’s always… there.”

“Of course it is. Where you come from is a part of you. Rejecting the fact won’t change it. Was your time in the Meadow really so awful?”

“I jumped into Hell the first chance I got to get away from it. Not only that, I jumped into Hell, for forever to get away from it.”

“But it wasn’t all bad. Why would so many choose to stay? Fear of change is one thing, but if everyone was in the same state as you were, they’d be down here, too.”

Vesta paused. That did ring true. She’d always wondered why it was that so few cherubuns fell; it really, genuinely, hadn’t occurred to her that a lot of them were probably happy where they were. Or happy enough that they weren't willing to risk damnation for it, anyhow. The realization came as something as a shock– it was too bad that there were still another thirteen days before her next session. Her therapist would be proud of this breakthrough.

“Come garden with me,” Primrose said, “and remember what was good about where you’re from.”

She hesitated, but did eventually stand. 

“I did kill every plant I touched in the Meadow,” Vesta warned him.

“That is why I’m not leaving you alone.”

Primrose showed Vesta the different types of ambrosia he was planting, explaining the difference between each seed. When she was taught in childhood, she felt as though no one could hold her attention. This time, though, when she saw the little seeds in Primrose’s hands, there was only one thought on her mind:

This is all that is left.

That thought alone was enough to carry her focus. When he handed her the seeds, she suddenly carried the weight of the culture she’d abandoned. Some emotion flickered in the back of her mind; something she didn’t quite understand. She snuffed it out before she could examine it; but she would not be able to forget that it had made her presence known.

Primrose then showed her how deep into the soil to dig in order to cultivate the perfect crops. She tried her best to match the depth, but there was always something slightly off– she hadn’t made one hole wide enough; the other was too wide; stuff like that. Eventually, with much assistance, she did have them all planted.

“I can take care of watering them,” Primrose said. “Thank you for your help today.”

“Thank you, too,” Vesta replied, unsure of how to signify the depth of her gratitude.

After brief goodbyes, Vesta left the Embassy. If she was unable to put the Meadow out of her mind before, it certainly occupied her waking thoughts, now.