that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried
His mind has fractured and rebuilt. His very bones dissolved before being reformed. He is not the boy that he was—the proud, restless son of Atrox and Ryatah. He is not the cursed thing that ran every night and played pretend every day. He is not even sure that he is Firion anymore. So many pieces of him have been bent and reshaped. Pulled apart and stitched together again. He has been molded around this new darkness in him but he cannot find the guilt that once accompanied it. Perhaps this is peace.
Perhaps it is merely the eye of the storm.
Either way, he moves through Beqanna with more ease, although even in his more renewed form, he finds that he still prefers the hours of the evening than the blistering sun of the day. The shadows cling to him and he doesn’t bother to shake them off. They glide like silk over the gold of his coat and his companion, still yet unnamed, both becomes part of the shadows and detaches—curling like a cat on his spine.
It is only when he sees those familiar markings. That shape of her horns. The harsh distinction of her coloring. It is only then that he pauses, angling his handsome head and following her with his golden gaze. Only then that he walks toward her, keeping a safe distance because even this fractured mind knows enough to give her a wide berth. “Have you died since the last time I saw you?” he asks and there is a slip of a smile against his mouth that barely lingers before it falls away. “You have a gift for it.”
A pause and a twitch of his nose.
“You smell of death.”
And at this, the smile fades and thunder sounds in his head.
so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried
