who we are and all that we're trying to be
Weaver’s predilections towards the gods likely amounted to the same old Abandoned lines: born with magic, and thus relegated to naught in their eyes. His experiences had been much of the latter before Attuning – and he wondered how much it mattered now. That faith in himself, in those around him, still far outweighed his tendencies to ask for consul from deities. Because anytime he’d tried, he’d failed. And after a while, one found solutions for their problems, to their trials, to their tribulations, without a celestial being’s authority. To find himself in Safrin’s presence always made him apprehensive for a collective amount of reasons; so he nodded in Weaver’s direction, understanding, comprehending, the subject at hand.
Then he went back to his work: to orchestrating something of the shambles, the mess, the notion of them being perfect still a doubt in his mind. His parents deserved something other than this concoction, and he wished he could’ve done it in magic, that he could’ve brought forth the whittled carvings in his mind, the blaze of fire spiraling up the sides, the woven water springing from edges. But something was off with his enchantments too, and the frustration was all the more ridiculous. Thereafter, the Sword settled for somehow contorting, creating, a series of little glass surfaces, veneer, tiny, minute in the multitude, the magnitude, of things he used to be able to spring to life: placing them along the framework, the foundations, striving to bring an essence of what they’d been. How they’d shaped him, how they’d raised him.
His head tilted, a softened sigh fringing on the boundaries of his breath; staying amongst the chatter, the bakery, and attempting to do better; snatching a scone to munch on while he scraped along the vestiges of worlds tilted and lost.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
