who we are and all that we're trying to be
Ready signified steps towards resolve, towards healing, towards grief not overwhelming, not overbearing, every movement they made. And though life hardly scattered those opportunities for them, the Sword would know and understand such notions from any life lived, carving out a semblance for a family dinner wasn’t as heavy as the multitudes of other layers and lacquer they’d sculpted. The beast took another bundle of chives in his great maw, and maneuvered towards the outer boundaries of the garden, making no effort to rebuff or reply – the sentiments dragging too hard into further ruminations, and he preferred movement to sinking any further.
The familiar pattern of digging settled into his soul, utilizing the barest hints of barbarity as claws sought purchase and tugged upon loosening soil, something potent, something powerful, something he could strike upon when there was naught else. It ebbed at his frustration, at his agony, and permitted him to tear into the earth with little else to show but a vacant hole; the herb following in soon after.
As he brushed the dirt back over, her words flickered over again, and he paused for a moment, mulling, presiding. Upset. And far more than he’d ever thought she would be, considering the webbing and entanglement of histories, of worlds collided, apart, frenetic, and something brutally unforgiving. I do not believe they reconciled well. Both had tried at his insistence, but it hadn’t seemed to have mattered – and now, in some bitter, rancorous press, it was entirely too late.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
