and on their altars you lay your heart of stone
He supposes interesting might be a fairer word to use for it, yes. Idly he rolls over on his back again, lifting his cupped hands full of earthen stars towards the sky and watching their light spill around his fingers. "I always wondered how much they policed their own relatives," he admits. "If you were pressured and punished into acting a certain way." Of course, Wessex cannot answer him: she's three hundred years too young and, as she confesses, probably the last.
And as an Ascended, she well and truly is the last. He suspects Azrael was merely crafted to resemble their parents, a divine gift and undoubtedly their child, but by a different process than the organic one.
"The last Theskyra," he muses, watching the cascade of glowstones from her hand, lowering his own raised palms to rest them on his chest. "It sounds grand. Poetic. And it's really mind-boggling, because half a year ago for me there were so many of you."
He doesn't like the question she asks him, though. He picks up a stone and turns it in front of his face, staring intently at it. "Yes," he says, rougher, harder, and offers nothing more of his own volition.
And as an Ascended, she well and truly is the last. He suspects Azrael was merely crafted to resemble their parents, a divine gift and undoubtedly their child, but by a different process than the organic one.
"The last Theskyra," he muses, watching the cascade of glowstones from her hand, lowering his own raised palms to rest them on his chest. "It sounds grand. Poetic. And it's really mind-boggling, because half a year ago for me there were so many of you."
He doesn't like the question she asks him, though. He picks up a stone and turns it in front of his face, staring intently at it. "Yes," he says, rougher, harder, and offers nothing more of his own volition.
