Weaver
Time is the substance from which I am made.
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
Time is a river which carries me along,
but I am the river;
She comes from a place where survival is everything. Sometimes the hardest part of it is not doing anything. Sometimes you have to sit and wait it out, sometimes you have to run, sometimes you have to turn your back on those you care about most. Turn your back, or give your life in exchange. There is always that choice to make, and is it worth it? Perhaps. Yet, wouldn’t Caido have been better off with her brother still in it rather than her? She cannot help but think that it would have been, that the wrong person dwelled in Mort’s realm now. Though she cannot live like that, and so she doesn’t. She is the one here, after all, and she will not waste his sacrifice.
The fire she steals is easily replaced, his inferno a raging and immeasurable thing. Was the inside of him like the quiet pool below, or like the fire that raged above it? She is not entirely sure, for it seems like he might be both. A raging inferno and a quiet calm pool, both tucked within their places inside him. He gives away so little of himself, these conversations largely one-sided. She doesn’t mind, thinking he prefers it that way, though still, she wonders.
”Five of us. Father, mother, older brother, me, and younger brother. Just the last two of us now though. Never large, and certainly small now.” Her voice is not sad as she replies, just matter of fact. Their deaths were a fact, a part of her life, and though she would forever miss them, she was not afraid of the topic as so many were. Perhaps this is why she prays to death.
The fire she steals is easily replaced, his inferno a raging and immeasurable thing. Was the inside of him like the quiet pool below, or like the fire that raged above it? She is not entirely sure, for it seems like he might be both. A raging inferno and a quiet calm pool, both tucked within their places inside him. He gives away so little of himself, these conversations largely one-sided. She doesn’t mind, thinking he prefers it that way, though still, she wonders.
”Five of us. Father, mother, older brother, me, and younger brother. Just the last two of us now though. Never large, and certainly small now.” Her voice is not sad as she replies, just matter of fact. Their deaths were a fact, a part of her life, and though she would forever miss them, she was not afraid of the topic as so many were. Perhaps this is why she prays to death.
it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger;
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.
