chaele
worship like a dog
The name does give Chaele pause; it is the kind of familiar that would only occur to them in some later, sighing revelation. For now they remain perplexed as to how to respond, eventually deciding to simply take the sticky little hand within their own long, carved fingers and shake it gently in greeting. “I am Chaele,” they offer in return, then tuck the last of their candy behind one ear so that both hands can be used to retrieve a small box from their satchel.
“There is no great difference between plants and animals,” they suppose, more a conjecture than a lesson. The box is opened to reveal various remains of both: bones and feathers beside herbs and petals. They retrieve the dried husk of a tiny pitcher plant and offer it to Mateo. “Each has its own instincts for survival and its own purpose in nature. Each is useful after death in the sustenance of new life.”
“There is no great difference between plants and animals,” they suppose, more a conjecture than a lesson. The box is opened to reveal various remains of both: bones and feathers beside herbs and petals. They retrieve the dried husk of a tiny pitcher plant and offer it to Mateo. “Each has its own instincts for survival and its own purpose in nature. Each is useful after death in the sustenance of new life.”
at the shrine of my lies
