who we are and all that we're trying to be
The Sword instilled a long inhale, a vicious exhale, and strived to move forward. He lowered his head beneath the onslaught of lights, garland, and torches, ignoring the wine, the cider, the stalls, heart aching, aching, aching under the beacon of onslaughts and self-inflicted torture. He’d already said his goodbyes, his farewells, but these moments held the brushstrokes of finality, and for a few moments, a few seconds, he was permitted to hate the circumstances, to wallow, to grieve, and then to give them over, finally, to Mort (offering no sanctity for the Voice, who held Rexanna’s soul – he’d ensure its proper place eventually).
Relinquishing them was another matter entirely, calloused hands clenching hard over their polished, gilded surfaces, over the intertwined handles of fire, flame, and stories, their tales, illustrated in each enlightened pane. So he swallowed down every nuance, every notion of bile, every withheld breath, and then placed them upon a hanging hook – together, even if they couldn’t be in the afterlife, for now.
Then he stood guard, stalwart and brutal.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
