ISLA
Unlike her siblings (and indeed, unlike herself to some extent), Isla keeps her head down as she sidles into the festival. With her lanterns aglow in her hands - one made carefully out of the pages of books, and the other flamboyantly decorated with splashes of paint - she quickly searches out a good place to hang them. Finding a suitable branch, she sets them up alongside the countless others and lets out a sigh that's entirely unnecessary.
"Sleep well brothers," she murmurs. Perhaps Samuel and Bastien were sleeping now. Properly sleeping, with dreams and everything. Regardless, Isla wishes them a good rest.
She'd almost made another lantern, one with pressed flowers and sketched constellations and a hawk's feathers, but she'd thought better of it. That man is technically still alive, she supposes, though Isla's version of him is gone for good.
"Sleep well brothers," she murmurs. Perhaps Samuel and Bastien were sleeping now. Properly sleeping, with dreams and everything. Regardless, Isla wishes them a good rest.
She'd almost made another lantern, one with pressed flowers and sketched constellations and a hawk's feathers, but she'd thought better of it. That man is technically still alive, she supposes, though Isla's version of him is gone for good.
apres moi le deluge
after me comes the flood
after me comes the flood
