tell me Atlas what is heavier?
the world or its peoples hearts?
the world or its peoples hearts?
Despite being a prominent landmark, Harper has yet to explore the lighthouse or the surrounding areas. So of course when he finally does, it's after a shift at the Halenani, with the twinkle of stars peeking stubbornly through the clouds that never seem to leave now that spring has arrived. The glow of the light is easy enough to follow. Like a moth he drifts along the vague edges of the path, feet too idle as a person to follow strictly to the well-trod earth. He carries his guitar, strumming idly as he goes, careful to maneuver his twitching fingers away from the chords whenever he passes by a cluster of houses.
Harper admittedly hasn't played in quite some time. He's rusty, but the chords are easy enough to remember, idle melodies that slip from beneath his fingertips as he walks along the path humming to himself. Singing soft verses here and there, mostly about the moon and stars. It's odd to miss a deity he's only met once, and yet he feels the urge to see Safrin grow all the larger with each day that passes. There is much on his mind, and she had been the kindest confidant he'd ever known. But he is possessed by the gripping fear of inadequacy, of burdening her with his mortal time and woes when she surely has much more to do.
So instead he wanders through the revolving light of the lighthouse, plucking at his guitar with nimble fingers, singing soft odes to her realm instead as he tries to work through the cluster of noise and confusion inside his own head.
Harper admittedly hasn't played in quite some time. He's rusty, but the chords are easy enough to remember, idle melodies that slip from beneath his fingertips as he walks along the path humming to himself. Singing soft verses here and there, mostly about the moon and stars. It's odd to miss a deity he's only met once, and yet he feels the urge to see Safrin grow all the larger with each day that passes. There is much on his mind, and she had been the kindest confidant he'd ever known. But he is possessed by the gripping fear of inadequacy, of burdening her with his mortal time and woes when she surely has much more to do.
So instead he wanders through the revolving light of the lighthouse, plucking at his guitar with nimble fingers, singing soft odes to her realm instead as he tries to work through the cluster of noise and confusion inside his own head.
Harper
