She listens, nodding. She understands the desire for everything. It is the sort of desire her mother had, the sort of desire she imparted on her children. The question was, what was everything? ”Well, that’s the question I can’t answer for you. If you want everything, find someone who wants to be your everything. If you want him, love him for him. Which I know is easier said than done.” Because of course, you couldn’t always have everything you wanted. Life never really worked that way. ”Or I suppose you could wait, and see if he changes.” She shrugs, almost as if suggesting Maea is worth more than sitting around waiting for a boy. Unless she really wanted to.
She smiles a bit at the question of what she wanted to do. ”Red and black, something warm and cozy, the sort of place that invites you in and gets you to stay. Couches, maybe blankets, a roaring fire. As for flavors…” she pauses, clearly giving the idea some thought. Though her mind wanders to future times with a new friend, making cider together, making something that was not just hers but theirs. It was a far cry from the life she’d lived before the portals opened, spending too much time alone in the wilds simply hunting. It was so strange, and yet so nice. ”Something smokey and warm. Whiskey, though it doesn’t have to actually be whiskey. We could all use a break from meat.”
Weaver listens, intent, as Maea tells the story. She knows of the Fiat Lux, though Maea gives more details than she’s gotten before. Everyone was always so afraid to talk about things, but not Maea, and Weaver finds she likes the girl more for it. Things hurt less in the light, when shared among friends. They hurt less when they are given voice and made real, as strange as that seems. They hurt more when they are bottled up, when they are left to fester and rot, when they are buried under carpets or mounds of snow.
And in the end, didn’t the dead deserve to live on in stories and memories? It was the least the living could do.
She lets out a breath at the mention of a dragon. Fool. There were far less dangerous rare creatures, but everyone always wanted the dragon. There was something about them, and Weaver wonders if their power was the attractive bit. As if you could capture some of that power for yourself by capturing the dragon. Dead or alive, it did not matter. Dragons were not meant to be captured. Her face falls slightly at the mention of Peter. Weaver did not know Adam, and she did not know Peter well, but she had met him when they set up the Academy. He’d come to help, accidentally sending the whole place up in smoke, but he’d seemed kind enough. ”Thank you for sharing,” she says when Maea comes to an end.
The fire on the log jumps, crackling loudly under Weaver’s influence, stretching red flicker fingers toward the sky. There is nothing to burn for them, and besides, that was not the custom of the Hallowed Grounds, but she could offer some small thing here anyway. ”May they burn brightly in the next life,” she says, a piece of the Halovian funeral rites she’d heard and uttered far too many times.
She smiles a bit at the question of what she wanted to do. ”Red and black, something warm and cozy, the sort of place that invites you in and gets you to stay. Couches, maybe blankets, a roaring fire. As for flavors…” she pauses, clearly giving the idea some thought. Though her mind wanders to future times with a new friend, making cider together, making something that was not just hers but theirs. It was a far cry from the life she’d lived before the portals opened, spending too much time alone in the wilds simply hunting. It was so strange, and yet so nice. ”Something smokey and warm. Whiskey, though it doesn’t have to actually be whiskey. We could all use a break from meat.”
Weaver listens, intent, as Maea tells the story. She knows of the Fiat Lux, though Maea gives more details than she’s gotten before. Everyone was always so afraid to talk about things, but not Maea, and Weaver finds she likes the girl more for it. Things hurt less in the light, when shared among friends. They hurt less when they are given voice and made real, as strange as that seems. They hurt more when they are bottled up, when they are left to fester and rot, when they are buried under carpets or mounds of snow.
And in the end, didn’t the dead deserve to live on in stories and memories? It was the least the living could do.
She lets out a breath at the mention of a dragon. Fool. There were far less dangerous rare creatures, but everyone always wanted the dragon. There was something about them, and Weaver wonders if their power was the attractive bit. As if you could capture some of that power for yourself by capturing the dragon. Dead or alive, it did not matter. Dragons were not meant to be captured. Her face falls slightly at the mention of Peter. Weaver did not know Adam, and she did not know Peter well, but she had met him when they set up the Academy. He’d come to help, accidentally sending the whole place up in smoke, but he’d seemed kind enough. ”Thank you for sharing,” she says when Maea comes to an end.
The fire on the log jumps, crackling loudly under Weaver’s influence, stretching red flicker fingers toward the sky. There is nothing to burn for them, and besides, that was not the custom of the Hallowed Grounds, but she could offer some small thing here anyway. ”May they burn brightly in the next life,” she says, a piece of the Halovian funeral rites she’d heard and uttered far too many times.
weaver
-- ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies --
Quote by Charles Dickens
