who we are and all that we're trying to be
For a creature meant for the quieter shades and darkness, for a cretin so habitually aware and vigilant in hushed platitudes, this contortion remained unsettling. Perhaps it was just the nature of it – lanterns in grief, in the paradoxes of loss, and instead of pulsing into its wake as he so often did, he unraveled from it. He caught Weaver’s eye and intonations, a warm, rumbling snort following through as she wiggled her fingers – he lifted one hand, intending to do the same, a flicker of flames pervading from the tips. Then they disappeared, teasing, taunting, before proceeding back to their rituals.
He was a bit disappointed in how shaky the foundation of his lantern was, not an accurate representation of the FireSword. Thereafter, he opted to grab some more twine and string, intertwining it along the framework, intending to instill a fortification along its wooden distinction. He followed through on the same wake with his mother’s, ensuring this one was strong too – like stones, like seas, like moonlit tides, worlds calling and harkening back through memories, through figments.
Amalia’s soft suggestion made his head, his gaze, rise from the fold, following over the materials already gathered. He opted for bright, crimson fabric for his father, and a deep blue for his mother. For a more regal effect, he burnt the edges of the fiery requiem, as if already scorched, already simmered, controlling, contorting, the efforts with silent fortitude.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
