God help the outcasts, the tattered, the torn
Seeking an answer to why they were born
Bastien was not expecting moving turns of phrase from Deimos and it seemed like he wouldn't get them. There was a part of him that still wanted to lash out again, to fight for the sake of fighting, to feel like he was doing something; but he had always been a mostly reasonable man and he knew it would solve nothing.
"..Thank you. If you see someone, ask them to bring Azrael to me." He said quietly. Perhaps it was somehow wrong to hold their child next to Rexanna when she was still and cold, but while they could he wanted their family to sit together. After Rexanna was buried, neither of them would have the chance to see her face again.
None of his paintings had ever been quite right.
After Deimos had left, the door clicking shut behind him, Bastien existed in the silence for a moment. Then, as swiftly as he'd recovered himself he collapsed into despair again, reaching for his wifes hand in some desperate plea for a returned grasp.
{FIN}
"..Thank you. If you see someone, ask them to bring Azrael to me." He said quietly. Perhaps it was somehow wrong to hold their child next to Rexanna when she was still and cold, but while they could he wanted their family to sit together. After Rexanna was buried, neither of them would have the chance to see her face again.
None of his paintings had ever been quite right.
After Deimos had left, the door clicking shut behind him, Bastien existed in the silence for a moment. Then, as swiftly as he'd recovered himself he collapsed into despair again, reaching for his wifes hand in some desperate plea for a returned grasp.
{FIN}
Winds of misfortune have blown them about
You made the outcasts, don't cast them out
BASTIEN
