The skies are black with lead-filled rain
a morbid painting on display
a morbid painting on display
The silence is broken by a cry of her name, and as her spine tightens defensively she mourns Atlas' loss anew, for he would have been her guard here upon the sand. Hotaru doesn't move even as the voice registers, feminine and wild and relieved in a way nobody else would dare to be upon seeing her right now. It could only be Maeve.
What else is there to do though? Sit and let her come? She is living only by each moment, each heartbeat; no further plans upon the horizon aside from those she has discussed with Deimos. All on his behalf more than her own. So she stands, because she must. Turns bare feet in the sand to watch Maeve barrel down across it, dress stained with smoke and Apopo's ash, her hands blackened. Ironic then that they'd been clean upon fleeing the Slagveld. "Maeve," comes streaking out of her tired throat, just loud enough to be heard. At least the Madame is okay.
What else is there to do though? Sit and let her come? She is living only by each moment, each heartbeat; no further plans upon the horizon aside from those she has discussed with Deimos. All on his behalf more than her own. So she stands, because she must. Turns bare feet in the sand to watch Maeve barrel down across it, dress stained with smoke and Apopo's ash, her hands blackened. Ironic then that they'd been clean upon fleeing the Slagveld. "Maeve," comes streaking out of her tired throat, just loud enough to be heard. At least the Madame is okay.
This is the night that young love died
Buried at each others sides
Buried at each others sides
