who we are and all that we're trying to be
The Sword had never been one to shirk his responsibilities to anyone else; partially because of the weight he put on his shoulders, and partially because it emphasized his modicum of control. But in this aftermath, of tragedies and torments, of seemingly never-ending debacles, he was too exhausted, too worn, too fatigued to care. They’d put enough effort in, and it hadn’t gotten them anywhere. They’d planned. They’d orchestrated. Even with their hearts and souls poured into the predicaments, it scarcely mattered. The world still fell apart.
And the beast knew he was at a breaking point; endured and endured and endured until he simply couldn’t any longer. Amalia couldn’t be much better off. They both presided in pretenses, but the veneers were thin, cracking, fumbling, and tearing.
Even Fiat Lux seemed like a distant haze, and he hid the flinch resounding through his figure. There’d been content memories there, ones they’d made, and he wouldn’t give credit to anyone else. There’d also been horrifying, terrifying poignancy, that seemed to wax and wane with every season (temples fallen and paralysis). If they missed it this year, he didn’t care either. The connotations of death ran rampant everywhere, and he was so tired of it all.
She pressed into his wake and his great hound skull leaned in, shoved against her shoulder while his mouth held another herb. The effects she detailed sounded far more divine than anything he could surmise, concoct, or imagine. Just have one another, a wondrous consideration – save for a few, he didn’t particularly care if he saw anyone else for another few months (and sometimes eternities). They’d earned that much.
Purposefully maneuvering against her, a light tease, he dropped the herb into another hollowed void, before orchestrating another tangent and target. Kiada brought a boyfriend back with her.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
