[open] buried it where bones are buried

[firion]

FIRION

It does not occur to him that he answered the question wrong—that his puppeteer has such poor reading comprehension skills that he is saddled with—and so he doesn’t correct himself. Doesn’t go back and answer the why that she had originally asked him. He just watches her quietly, studying the way that she is carved of wind and ice and the storm that he helps bring to her now. He wants to know if she has always been this way, if she was born into the cold or carved from it, but it feels rude to ask.

He knows what it is like to inherit something that changes you entirely.

Both for the good and the bad, although even the good felt weighted.

So he keeps his questions for himself and just watches her instead, doing his best to not be cut on the sharpest of her edges. “I have before, in my own way,” he says and wonders if that’s true or if he has lied simply because he is too ignorant to do otherwise. He hopes that he has warned them. Hopes that they have been able to discern that is what he means by his actions—by the way that he pushes them so far.

“Not well enough though,” he amends and his mouth turns downward in the corners as he wrestles with this fact—this knowledge that he has not ever been good enough at warning them so that they might protect themselves from the disappointment that he inevitably brings. “I think they hope for the best.”

He manages a wry smile then, finding her cold face.

“But there is no best, unfortunately.”

so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)

@camellia