06-18-2021, 03:46 PM
kensley
i swore the days were over of courting empty dreams
It is a kind sentiment but he knows that’s all it is.
Still, he smiles. (Even if it is the same sad smile he has always worn. Something worn down in the eyes, something dark and brittle.)
He does not know how to rebuild a friendship but he supposes this is as good a place as any to start.
There is no use in telling her that Anaxarete had helped him, just as Agetta had insisted she would. Or that it had not been as permanent as he had hoped. He cannot tell her how different it is to be alive again after being something else for so long. (He had been that something else the first time their paths had crossed and every time after that. Until now. And his friend Agetta would have delighted to see him living again, wouldn’t she? But this new Agetta does not know the difference.)
He draws in a breath (how beautiful it is to do such a thing, even still, even now! Even if the lungs still ache sometimes) at her question, shifts his weight. The dark things had spared them. Or, rather, the dark things had been kind to them. The dark things had brought him back to life. The dark things had gifted him with the magic that the son had held so dear, hadn’t they? The fog.
Perhaps it is only because she does not remember that he feels comfortable telling the truth.
“I think my son was responsible for it,” he admits and exhales a shuddering sigh. He shakes his head and does not know how to look at her, his friend, when he says. “Even with the sun returned, I do not know how to confront the idea of being ashamed of my son.”
Still, he smiles. (Even if it is the same sad smile he has always worn. Something worn down in the eyes, something dark and brittle.)
He does not know how to rebuild a friendship but he supposes this is as good a place as any to start.
There is no use in telling her that Anaxarete had helped him, just as Agetta had insisted she would. Or that it had not been as permanent as he had hoped. He cannot tell her how different it is to be alive again after being something else for so long. (He had been that something else the first time their paths had crossed and every time after that. Until now. And his friend Agetta would have delighted to see him living again, wouldn’t she? But this new Agetta does not know the difference.)
He draws in a breath (how beautiful it is to do such a thing, even still, even now! Even if the lungs still ache sometimes) at her question, shifts his weight. The dark things had spared them. Or, rather, the dark things had been kind to them. The dark things had brought him back to life. The dark things had gifted him with the magic that the son had held so dear, hadn’t they? The fog.
Perhaps it is only because she does not remember that he feels comfortable telling the truth.
“I think my son was responsible for it,” he admits and exhales a shuddering sigh. He shakes his head and does not know how to look at her, his friend, when he says. “Even with the sun returned, I do not know how to confront the idea of being ashamed of my son.”
i worshipped at the altar of losing everything
@[Agetta]