Clemente
the difference between a garden
and a graveyard
is what we choose to put in the soil
Clemente gasps softly as the sparks dance up his fingers, eyes suddenly wet with a shuddering relief he can scarcely put words to. It's far more recognition than he has ever been given before, when he had been desperate enough to pray to absent deities. The strength and wholeness he feels is like a drug, and though he still fears that he is not the champion she had wanted, he has time to wait. To ask. To hope that he sees her face to face someday soon, so he can thank her in person.
He stays by the tree for a few long hours, curled against the obsidian bark like a cradle he was never given.
