who we are and all that we're trying to be
Couldn’t hear him? Couldn’t hear him? He shook with some inconceivable rage, a festering, blinding thing combined with the course of grief and the outline of irreverence. He listened, he stood against those outcrops and waited for some other ax to fall, the grinding sentiments of claws rasping down the panes. She would answer him readily via their bond, she always had. But gods, the temptation to open those doors again, simply because of misgivings, of doubts, of all his other failures rankled and spurred, galvanized and scraped. He ached and he hurt and he wanted to crawl into a hole and never return. “You are not my wife,” he echoed against the bellows. She’d get in on her own. She’d be strong. She’d be capable. She’d be holy and divine. Her dreamfish would save. Her staff would blur into crimson voids.
Another test, another measure, before the world sought to destroy him again, reaching out towards Attuned endeavors; because, perhaps, the monsters couldn't do the same. What did I make you last LongNight?
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
