Andromeda {{ District Eight (FIN)

I was a compass.

Their compass.

And when the house that sheltered those boys would fill to the brim with sacs of blood, flesh, bones, and worst of all voices we'd dawn our exploration gear and put on our bravest faces and as the screen door slammed we'd be off into the wooded area that had sprang up around their home (looking back on it now, I guess that should have been some sort of omen), and I'd lead them over rocks and streams and stumps and roots.

Which is odd, because you'd think that the men, with their muscles and hormones and pride based egos, would be the ones to forge through the shrubbery that adorned our pathways. But instead, it was I that took on that role, because with Owen's brain being too caught up inside of the sketchpad he constantly tore through and Cody being too caught up in helping him through each imperfect line and shade, there wasn't much natural guidance to depend on.

In a way, I was like their third wheel, the one on the sidelines, the one who merely watched instead of throwing themselves into the midst of the other two. But in a way, I was okay with that, because whereas Owen threw himself into his art, I threw myself into something much more abundant, much more plentiful and much more rewarding.

Nature.

Because while Owen mentally decapitated himself each time his hand slipped or he smudged a line, each time my hands wrapped around the stem of a flower, it's petals bearing the weight of the pollution that hung over this district, and each time with as delicate a force I could manage I tore that flower from the ground and rolled it between dirt covered fingers, each time I stuck it into my hair, or each time I let it fall to the ground once more I felt no shame or anger in myself (much like Owen did), and I felt no need to mentally and verbally chastise myself until my pride had withered and died like a flower deprived of water or nutrients.

Admittedly, I had no idea how to handle Owen's outbursts, partly because my mind was too busy most of the time in the trees that made their home on the outskirts of the district or the flowers that made beauty their job and partly because I never knew how to support someone that couldn't find it in them to support themselves. But those boys were something special, and the bond they shared surpassed anything I could ever hope to forge between another human being.

One time, when Owen had gotten too caught up in a drawing and ended up throwing the sketch paper in whatever direction he saw fit, the crumpled up piece of hopes and dreams had made it's home at my feet. I thought not to pick it up, and before I could think to even do anything about it Cody's hands had scooped the mess of a thing, and with slightly widened eyes I watched him try and fix something that was un-fixable, rubbing the wrinkles out with his thumbs and flattening the paper yet again before bringing it back to where Owen sat, huddled in frustration and self-loathing. Cody spoke with nothing but comfort clinging to his words, and the brotherly love that I saw between them both shocked me and filled me with the thought of them being by each other's side until old age managed to take them both down.

I've watched those two grow a little more each time we took a step forward along the paths i'd managed to discover while exploring. And truly, they were steps forward, ones filled with love and comfort and the blossoming of an already strong relationship between two brothers. But Owen's spot has been replaced with the shadows cast by the trees, by the weeds that have overgrown the paths. And with him gone, I can feel things changing, just like nature does and always will.

Because when that heartless wench from Four struck down Owen Bowers-Fox, I felt the flowers wilt a little, the trees moan slightly in mourning. The magic that i'd once felt in the clearings and places i'd bring them drained like a leaking water bottle. And now, when I run a flower through my fingers I can feel the presence of Owen inside of it, clinging to the petals and stem. 

Things changed the day Owen Bowers-Fox stopped needing my guidance, and they haven't stopped changing since.

Were all dying like a flower without water.