She’d been tending to a new batch of coffee trees at her… technically now boss’s behest. Funny how history works out. Though she’d significantly hastened their growth, these were still spindly things despite outgrowing the size of their pots. She had to repeatedly re-pot these (tediously often, because of her quickening) until she secured a suitable place for a proper grove: warm, but not too warm; wet, but not too wet; lit, but not too brightly— she almost misses her infinitely adaptable laboratory. But something about the effort made it rewarding, a concept novel to her.
Yggdrasil bows with pruning shears in hand, idly chiming an aimless tune, falling into a working rhythm as she pruned away the twigs that would never bear fruit. Unheeding of the time, she works through the night and when the sunlight spills onto her back, she begins her next task: moving every single potted tree into partial shade. Tireless, she arranges them in a neat matrix. Those south-east windows were incidentally inconvenient. She looks through the glass.
A terribly familiar archangel stood just beyond, wings not in sight, but divinity plain to her eyes.
The former supreme primarch had cultivated coffee trees once. It made some sense that her deluded mind would manifest his shade at this moment. But why? Yggdrasil had already grieved. Completed her parse of what remaining memories between them against her own mental protests. Was the sleeping splinter of herself trying to tell her something she’d missed? Yet he looks so alive… even all the shadows of his face and figure against the cobblestone were true. She slides open the window and chimes, testing,
… Supreme primarch?
— @primarchfell ❀