Love Under Lunar Light [ Don't Starve Together ]

Home for The Homeless

There is no night. The sky is filled with terrible lunar light.

Wendy blinks, her eyes are dry and rough. Before her is a shallow grave, the ground barely touched by the shovel in her hands. Whatever the lunar islands are made of, it isn't dirt. All she can do is make the poor aftermath of a grave, something that only gives her misery. Surrounding the mock grave, flint, lunar glass shards, unbroken stone fruits, and a single moth adorn the resting place. A particularly straight piece of driftwood acts as the headstone for the grave, a collection of rocks keeping the wood from falling. No text foretells who shall lie in the resting place.
It's almost beautiful.
Wendy blinks again. The lunar moth starts to flap its wings, shifting her attention to the beautiful creature. It flutters off and out of sight, mixing into the ugly hue of blue the island never stray from. A tinge of jealousy sinks into Wendy's skin and the desire to crush the butterfly remains on her mind for a very long time.
Turning back to the grave, Wendy looks at the fruits of her labor. So far, it appears more like a collection of trash than it does a grave. A real grave stabs the land, hurting it and burying more pain to fester. It is surrounded by memories that haunt any passerby. That is what Wendy wants. But all she can do is rot on the outside.

As the ground rumbles ever so slightly, cracks inhabiting the island open up to release more light. The geysers shoot out pure, hazing light, like a smog that invades the senses. It makes Wendy flinch and put a single hand to her head.
She blinks, almost forgetting why she's still standing in front of a collection of trash. Pushing her feet to move, Wendy drops her shovel and hurries to the place she calls home.
She doesn't run, her steps are light and cautious. Too much effort and she might exhaust her frail body. She follows a strict path, avoiding harsh lunar light and overgrown trees. The movements of her eyes are soft, they carry too much pain to look at anything intensely.

Wendy hurries home, but it's not her real home. She doesn't belong here.

The white trees are twice her size, the bushes are filled with stone fruits, the spider nests are deceptively quiet. Wendy can't call the lunar islands her home. Not even the gestalts that roam the isolated land can find peace. She knows deep inside that she will always be a foreign thing on the island.

On the farthest corner of the lunar island, only habitable by rocks, a single fire pit stands alone. For Wendy, this is the only part of the island where her mind is free from the hazing of the light. She is truly alone here.
Wendy sits in front of the fire pit.
Beside her are a few logs and an axe, the barest essentials for living— if she can even call it that. Nothing softens her seat, nothing gives her ideas on new things to build, nothing distracts her from the frost that pierces her body no matter how strong the fire becomes, nothing.
As Wendy slowly starts a fire, she takes notice of her worsening health. The nearly stick-like form of her arm is bad enough, but her skin is getting paler by the day. Soon enough she'll be a walking skeleton.
When the fire pit breathes new life, starving for fuel, Wendy hurries to add more wood, the growing fire a spectacle to enjoy. Its orange hues and sharp form draw Wendy close to it. Some days, she only looks into the fire. She's tempted to stick her hand in, but her mind decides against it.
The ashy wisps of the fire brush against Wendy's skin. It's almost comforting. She stares into the flames as her eyes struggle to stay open. The faint memory of some different place hides in the fire. A place surrounded by laughter and warm food and people. Wendy stares and stares and begs to be whisked away, even if for just a second.
But, with a slow blink, she's reminded that all she is doing is staring into flames. There is nothing for her in the fire. So, she waits.

As the fire quietly burns, time passes. Wendy's hands lay limp in her lap. Her clothes are white, just like her skin, just like everything around her. Yet her hair is light blue, almost tainted by the white. Soon, it too may become like everything else. She is stained top to bottom by the island.
From her hair, she grabs a single lunar blossom, different from the rest on the island. Instinctively, she holds it as if it were her own heart. Despite not knowing why she cares for it so much, Wendy keeps it safe all the same. Some part of her wishes the blossom will reveal its importance to her in time. But it's withering. She fears what will happen when the blossom dies completely. Maybe she'll die, too. Or, perhaps, something inside her will die, leaving her a husk of a person.