Lena
and sweetest in the gale is heard
and sore must be the storm
and sore must be the storm
“Mort treats our perished all the same. With love, compassion, and tenderness,” and she smiled, if a bit sadly. No judgements, no parallels, no binding at the end of a life – but allowed and permitted to go onto another realm of peace and serenity. “But yes, you’re probably right.” Only the living grieved the losses – especially without a chance, an opportunity, to do anything other than encounter sorrow alone. Touching over the paint with one finger, ensuring it had dried, she dipped her brush into a bright lavender hue, and began orchestrating tiny designs of hammers and tools on the sides.
Her eyes were drawn to his map though, and she hummed lightly, taking the paintbrush away from the metal and enamel for a moment, tracing a line upon some spots on the canvas. “The Oerwoud, while quite humid, would certainly have enough resources.” She thought of King’s End and its stretches of land, but the dead were honored there as well. “King’s End might be appealing too.” Pondering, because the notions didn’t seem grand, she continued. “Hak Etme is all desert and in the shadow of the Draig…if you don’t mind quite a bit of work. Or the swamps of the Feverlands.”
Her eyes were drawn to his map though, and she hummed lightly, taking the paintbrush away from the metal and enamel for a moment, tracing a line upon some spots on the canvas. “The Oerwoud, while quite humid, would certainly have enough resources.” She thought of King’s End and its stretches of land, but the dead were honored there as well. “King’s End might be appealing too.” Pondering, because the notions didn’t seem grand, she continued. “Hak Etme is all desert and in the shadow of the Draig…if you don’t mind quite a bit of work. Or the swamps of the Feverlands.”
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm
that kept so many warm
