who we are and all that we're trying to be
Action, action, action – the only eloquence he’d ever be able to muster. Forcefulness in movement, in motion, in existence, a candid display of arms and munitions, of weaponry and defiance. Not to be left amidst his own despondency and decadent annihilation, broadening the expanse of his nature by simply remaining tied and rooted to the earth, by planting his feet firmly into the soil and pressing onwards; savage, nefarious, sinister. Perhaps he’d take it as a personal challenge, to remain upright and callous when the world kept rampaging, perhaps he’d catch himself in the fire and burn the entire earth to the ground when everything else dared to fall apart. He wouldn’t dare the kingdom to do its worst, but he’d unravel at every seam until some sort of rendered justice had been upheld. Never idle. Never nothing. He’d unwound amidst Greatwoods and Fae villages to get back loved ones. He’d twisted deadly enchantments into Spires. He’d insisted upon rebellions. He’d gained trust and accord with a new, foreign world, where others would’ve left him to sink into devastation and oblivion. This was just one more thing.
Just one more.
And he let that be an echo, a hiss, a sibilance wrapped across his mind, seething and sizzling into his movements, into his keen, quiet observations. He wouldn’t be bested. Amalia would be healed. There’d be something for them after all this damned mess had been sorted.
Gratefully, Wessex didn’t press, didn’t wonder, didn’t ponder any farther, except for the typing. “No,” shaking his head in response. No ornamental description of which kind, which flower, which sprout; just stages of decomposition. He’d yet to look into things beyond trees, so the notion of bushes or brambles had him nodding his compliance in her search. He didn’t ask why she wanted to help – the connection to Amalia would’ve explained it all – and instead, persisted, clambering further into ruinous plights, scanning canopy lines.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
