the difference between a garden
AND A GRAVEYARD
AND A GRAVEYARD
The scars on their figure are just as enchanting, the boy obsessed with death and witchery too young of mind to know when it is and is not appropriate to stare. But even with his inadequacies, the softening and solemnity of his face apparent in the wake of such news. “Ah, I see,” he murmurs softly, voice like a brook instead of the deeper rumbles of manhood. “Mathair would be best. Fae live such long lives that the number of their dead is rather low, and they don’t believe in caskets or anything like that. They want to have their nutrients and soul taken in by the forest without intervention or disruption.” And with Mathair returned to their proper home, surely the Fae whose ashes Chaele now possessed would wish to be returned home as well.
Before Enzo could explain further, Chaele’s movements drew his eye, their magic apparent in its use. He marvels at it openly, and when the glimpse of light refracting off quickly moving eyes strikes through the holes of the mask in clear command, the young man leaps to do so. His own hand rises - magic rising to the fore at his command, weak but growing stronger every day. The beetle’s body pulls toward his hand like a marionette on an invisible string, and with his other hand Enzo deftly retrieves a bottle to guide it into. Little body making a soft noise against the glass before the lid is shut. “Thank you, that was amazing,” he compliments sincerely, fingers eagerly clutching the new specimen, valiantly fighting down the questions he has. They are grieving, or so he assumes, and his intellectual pursuits cannot take precedence over that.
Before Enzo could explain further, Chaele’s movements drew his eye, their magic apparent in its use. He marvels at it openly, and when the glimpse of light refracting off quickly moving eyes strikes through the holes of the mask in clear command, the young man leaps to do so. His own hand rises - magic rising to the fore at his command, weak but growing stronger every day. The beetle’s body pulls toward his hand like a marionette on an invisible string, and with his other hand Enzo deftly retrieves a bottle to guide it into. Little body making a soft noise against the glass before the lid is shut. “Thank you, that was amazing,” he compliments sincerely, fingers eagerly clutching the new specimen, valiantly fighting down the questions he has. They are grieving, or so he assumes, and his intellectual pursuits cannot take precedence over that.
is what you choose to put in the soil
ENZO
