who we are and all that we're trying to be
It’s perfect curled against his senses, looking back to find Amalia near tears – and he didn’t know what he was supposed to be feeling, except her smile made him smile, a little, a minute, scarce amount, even when he was staring straight into the unknown. He stood back then, watching as she worked her own magic, drawing kindling into the middle, sparking the flint until the wood caught flame, and then the void crackled on the edges of its tiny inferno, blistering pledges, rough appeals. He watched too – mostly the baker, the surroundings, uncertain of where he fit in.
Then there was more and he almost didn’t stifle the discomfort suddenly managing to sizzle against him, far more than the heat of the embers, composing something for Safrin. He’d been comfortable only after a lengthy period of singing with her and Jigano, but he didn’t know Ronin or Remi as well, and the air of nonchalance folded vividly right back over his face, apprehensive, unwilling to put himself out there.
What was he supposed to even say to those who discarded him? Who ignored him? And then in turn, he’d done the exact same thing, only kneeling when those he cared for were threatened, were in danger, like an idiot, like a fool, still cast aside on his pleading, on his begging, with only a hint of starlight, a reel of laughter.
Pettiness and spite nearly manifested its way through his core, twisting and turning, rampaging and distorting. It would be so easy for him to leave pieces of his rage on the parchment, an unrelenting letter asking why with all the bitterness of some fledgling child, some insipid, irreverent blade, some seditious speck of dust none of them had ever seen or bothered with, who had never come to them on his behalf, but for those around him, because he was useless –
He took the paper from Amalia’s grasp and looked at her – truly looked at her – with unreachable, unreadable fathoms, comprehending that he couldn’t do that to her, that he couldn’t erase all of her hard work, all of her losses, all of her perseverance on his contempt and wrath. This was her shrine, for her fallen goddess, for the broken bits and pieces of stars floating around them.
The beast clenched his jaw and took some charcoal, silent, quiet, hushed, faithless except for one thing. It took him a few moments to scrawl and write out the exchange, despite it being short, blunt, and to the point. There was little imagination to it, but enough of a declaration to spare everyone and everything any musings on meanings. The execution didn’t hold any flare either, just a neat, fine print, contemplating whether he would show the baker or hide it, tuck it away, wait until the embers swallowed and consumed it.
In the end, he raised it briefly to her eyes, holding it over his face.
Safrin,
Thank you for her.
Then he folded it into various lines, and tossed it into the fire – the smallest of grins managing to appear on his lips, but utterly incapable of meeting Amalia’s gaze.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
