if it doesn't burn a little
Loren turns to her, not far into the room, stepping in further to allow her to enter as well. Weaver strides into the room, though it feels wrong somehow, like violating the privacy of someone who no longer had a need for privacy at all. Still, like Loren, she finds herself stopping not too far from the door for a moment, looking around at the spare bedroom.
Weaver doesn’t sleep at the Academy either, given that she has a house nearby that she vastly prefers. The rooms here are small and cold, though there’s a hearth to light if someone were actually in the room. Weaver stares at the little fireplace for a moment and a fire jumps to life there, giving off heat, even if neither of the occupants actually need the warmth. Still, it brightens the room slightly, and Maea deserves what little fire Weaver can offer. There is no body to burn, no funeral to be had, but that does not mean they cannot honor her.
”Okay,” she says, which is true enough. She is sad, but not broken, for grief rarely breaks her. She turns to him in time to catch him rubbing tears from his eyes. She takes a few steps over to him, coming close if he’ll let her, and rests her head against his shoulder, eyes on the fire. ”It’s okay to be sad. To cry. To scream. But you know she doesn’t want us to live in grief. Life is beautiful because it is fleeting,” she says, parroting what Maea had written to her.
Weaver doesn’t sleep at the Academy either, given that she has a house nearby that she vastly prefers. The rooms here are small and cold, though there’s a hearth to light if someone were actually in the room. Weaver stares at the little fireplace for a moment and a fire jumps to life there, giving off heat, even if neither of the occupants actually need the warmth. Still, it brightens the room slightly, and Maea deserves what little fire Weaver can offer. There is no body to burn, no funeral to be had, but that does not mean they cannot honor her.
”Okay,” she says, which is true enough. She is sad, but not broken, for grief rarely breaks her. She turns to him in time to catch him rubbing tears from his eyes. She takes a few steps over to him, coming close if he’ll let her, and rests her head against his shoulder, eyes on the fire. ”It’s okay to be sad. To cry. To scream. But you know she doesn’t want us to live in grief. Life is beautiful because it is fleeting,” she says, parroting what Maea had written to her.
-- weaver
then what's the point in playing with fire?
