BASTIEN
The walk back from the pyre was a slow march; Bastien was silent and for a large part of it mindless, his brain entirely blank and wiped clean with a heavy depression. Now, for the most part, it was over; Rexanna would not be at the Sanctuary when he got home and no matter what music he put on the thought player, it would be too quiet. Pittore and Azrael where little heartbeats for the home, but they weren't his companion, his teammate: he was the sole ruler of their little kingdom now.
He got to the door and with the ring clasped tight in his hand, he pushed it open; Azrael was with Mabel and Evelyn and would be brought back soon, Pittore was somewhere in the house (since he had had the news, he'd not been his usual pattering happy self).
----
Hours had passed, though he'd hardly noticed. Azrael was upstairs in their room, washed and fed and sleeping and he was sat in the main studio, his massive array of paintings of Rexanna out before him. He had gathered them all from the house, from behind cupboards and up on walls, from sketchbooks and finished canvases: all of them surrounding him in a painted audience made up of just his wife.
Bastien sat drinking wine he couldn't taste, staring at them all. He had originally dragged them out with the intention of destruction, thinking that it was best to clear himself of the constant reminders, but now he found that he couldn't. When the pictures were around him, they each held a little memory: how she'd found that one funny, how he'd loved the way she'd smiled while posing for that one, how while he was painting the largest he had spilled paint on her dress. Together, the paintings amplified the voice of her ghost tenfold and the noise was deafening.
So he sat and did nothing.
He got to the door and with the ring clasped tight in his hand, he pushed it open; Azrael was with Mabel and Evelyn and would be brought back soon, Pittore was somewhere in the house (since he had had the news, he'd not been his usual pattering happy self).
----
Hours had passed, though he'd hardly noticed. Azrael was upstairs in their room, washed and fed and sleeping and he was sat in the main studio, his massive array of paintings of Rexanna out before him. He had gathered them all from the house, from behind cupboards and up on walls, from sketchbooks and finished canvases: all of them surrounding him in a painted audience made up of just his wife.
Bastien sat drinking wine he couldn't taste, staring at them all. He had originally dragged them out with the intention of destruction, thinking that it was best to clear himself of the constant reminders, but now he found that he couldn't. When the pictures were around him, they each held a little memory: how she'd found that one funny, how he'd loved the way she'd smiled while posing for that one, how while he was painting the largest he had spilled paint on her dress. Together, the paintings amplified the voice of her ghost tenfold and the noise was deafening.
So he sat and did nothing.
You always let me down so tenderly
So live fast and die young and stay forever numb
So live fast and die young and stay forever numb
