Was it shock or just simply sadness that stops her? It is not that she is necessarily shocked by death, but rather that it will always simply hurt. Death is no stranger to Weaver, for she has tasted his kiss and it is sweet and tempting, but it leaves poison on your lips. Shock is, of course, simply a way of being upset but it feels different, somehow, as if implying that she is surprised to find a child on the table. She is not surprised, not really, but the wave of memories and the pain that comes with them is, she supposes, shocking. Things she thought long buried come flooding back too easily.
She is almost thankful for something else to do, for the distraction from the thoughts of Erebor, her mother, her step-father. She’d rather not dream of the life she might have had, if they had not died, if at the very least Erebor had not died. Who might she have been if she’d be given the chance to grow up with him into adulthood? It doesn’t matter, now.
Abasi collects a bucket of paint and a brush for her, which is not as fun as carving with a knife but she supposes it is vastly more effective. She studies the open space for a moment, most of which is beneath the window, listening as he tells her of his own custom. “Must our souls be lighter than a feather, then?” she asks, dipping the brush into the paint. Her soul was far heavier than a feather, she was sure.
She begins to paint, a curving and small script beneath the window:
We return your ashes to the earth.
We hear your memories on the wind.
We feel your love in the snow.
We give you to the flame.
Beside the words, she draws a flame. Art is not her strong suit, but she knows fire well, and is able to create something akin to a flame made only of one color. She cannot do it justice, not really, but one can imagine the flame that consumes the body and pyre, one can imagine standing to watch reciting those words as the flames brought home a body lost to this world.
She is almost thankful for something else to do, for the distraction from the thoughts of Erebor, her mother, her step-father. She’d rather not dream of the life she might have had, if they had not died, if at the very least Erebor had not died. Who might she have been if she’d be given the chance to grow up with him into adulthood? It doesn’t matter, now.
Abasi collects a bucket of paint and a brush for her, which is not as fun as carving with a knife but she supposes it is vastly more effective. She studies the open space for a moment, most of which is beneath the window, listening as he tells her of his own custom. “Must our souls be lighter than a feather, then?” she asks, dipping the brush into the paint. Her soul was far heavier than a feather, she was sure.
She begins to paint, a curving and small script beneath the window:
We return your ashes to the earth.
We hear your memories on the wind.
We feel your love in the snow.
We give you to the flame.
Beside the words, she draws a flame. Art is not her strong suit, but she knows fire well, and is able to create something akin to a flame made only of one color. She cannot do it justice, not really, but one can imagine the flame that consumes the body and pyre, one can imagine standing to watch reciting those words as the flames brought home a body lost to this world.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
