who we are and all that we're trying to be
“War is supposedly coming,” he rumbled, as if this was an everyday occurrence. To be fair, in his multitudes, years, and lifetimes of experiences, it nearly was; faced with calamity after calamity caused by the Voice, notion after notion spilling out in either massive barrages or small inklings, striving to be unnoticed by the populace. “Old Gods and New Gods,” was another hint; he presumed she’d know the histories of the regions, and the Grounds put behind the barrier, the Voice in her tethers until recently.
More wool, more stitches, easygoing platitudes of mending and repairing while she spoke of her mother. The woman sounded as if she still carried on in her state – and he arched a brow, ceasing to be capable of drawing a comparison to anyone he had in mind. Uncertain if he’d seen her gallivanting off through the snow upon a sled – but his head had been down lately, formulating other plans and schemes. “Would she be able to utilize a chair? With wheels?” He swallowed down a trace of bile at the thought, at the memories, of another time and place where he’d made one, ramps lined along the house, promises and vows that went and broke.
Instead of thinking anymore on that particular subject, he kept his gaze on the effigy, and sewed the stomach shut. It had a fair amount more rolls and pudginess than it had before, adding to the ridiculousness of its fractured head.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
