The air stills first, a hush so complete it feels like the world has stopped to listen. Then the light begins to shift. The stained glass above glows brighter, colours blooming outward until gold pours like sunlight through water, and from it steps a figure who might have always been there, simply waiting for her to notice.
Mort’s smile is easy, almost boyish, the kind that carries warmth rather than awe. His presence is gentle but absolute; not a weight pressing down, but a quiet radiance that fills every corner of the room. He glances around, taking in the living offerings she has gathered: the plants breathing softly in the candlelight, the lily standing like a promise, the glow of life laid carefully at the feet of death. "I see you have brought beauty into my presence," he says, voice low and lilting, as though each word is meant to soothe. "Even in honouring me, you have chosen life. Vi would be pleased." There’s affection in his words—a fondness that runs deep enough to eclipse time—and then his gaze shifts. The unseen spirits stir, and the air ripples faintly as if acknowledging their maker’s herald. Mort’s smile softens further, and he inclines his head to the empty air. "And you as well, little ones. It is lovely to see you."
When his eyes return to Flora, the warmth does not fade, but there is a weight beneath it now; not judgment, but the gravity of what he is. "Flora," he murmurs, her name carrying the kind of reverence reserved for those whose hearts have already broken open once before. "I have seen the shape of your pain. The echo that has lived beside you since your twin crossed into my keeping."
He steps closer, light bending faintly around him. "But you know, do you not, that death comes to all in time? There is no soul untouched by the ache it brings, no heart that has not learned to live with its absence." His head tilts, curls catching the golden light, his tone neither unkind nor indulgent. "So tell me, child of death and love, why do you believe that you should be spared that lesson? Why should your grief be the one to end?"
Mort’s smile is easy, almost boyish, the kind that carries warmth rather than awe. His presence is gentle but absolute; not a weight pressing down, but a quiet radiance that fills every corner of the room. He glances around, taking in the living offerings she has gathered: the plants breathing softly in the candlelight, the lily standing like a promise, the glow of life laid carefully at the feet of death. "I see you have brought beauty into my presence," he says, voice low and lilting, as though each word is meant to soothe. "Even in honouring me, you have chosen life. Vi would be pleased." There’s affection in his words—a fondness that runs deep enough to eclipse time—and then his gaze shifts. The unseen spirits stir, and the air ripples faintly as if acknowledging their maker’s herald. Mort’s smile softens further, and he inclines his head to the empty air. "And you as well, little ones. It is lovely to see you."
When his eyes return to Flora, the warmth does not fade, but there is a weight beneath it now; not judgment, but the gravity of what he is. "Flora," he murmurs, her name carrying the kind of reverence reserved for those whose hearts have already broken open once before. "I have seen the shape of your pain. The echo that has lived beside you since your twin crossed into my keeping."
He steps closer, light bending faintly around him. "But you know, do you not, that death comes to all in time? There is no soul untouched by the ache it brings, no heart that has not learned to live with its absence." His head tilts, curls catching the golden light, his tone neither unkind nor indulgent. "So tell me, child of death and love, why do you believe that you should be spared that lesson? Why should your grief be the one to end?"
mort
