Firion knows enough to know that he is not the only one saddled with this grief. He knows that there are others—his half brother, the rest of his siblings, his father, oh god, his father—but as is the case with such grief, he struggles to look outside of himself. He only sees that which applies to him. He only sees the way that it eats at him. The way that his mind twists around the rage and the pain, twisting it further and further until the knife settles so surely into his chest that he’s not sure he will ever be able to extract it.
This is his now, he thinks, as he aches with each new breath.
His pain to carry and nurse, lest he ever forget the nearly shy smile of his mother.
Mazikeen cannot cure it, he knows, but she is a comfort all the same. She folds into his side and he makes a low noise in the base of his throat, something like a groan or a sob caught halfway. For a second, he just lets her fit himself there and he hangs his head heavy on her back, his golden eyes closing as a tear escapes to run down his cheek. He feels the soft movements of her mouth against him and it breaks him.
That last piece of strength—any chance he had at pretending that he could survive this—shatters and he drags her to him, crushing her against him. His eyes screw shut and he feels the tear rack through his chest as he buries his face against her, gritting his teeth against the sound of his mourning. How could he pretend his magic was for anything—for any good, any purpose—if he hadn’t been able to protect his mother? If he couldn’t protect those closest to him, what was the point of everything he had suffered?
There is no respite for his aching, but there is a balm in suffering through it with Mazikeen pressed to him. To not being alone in the forest, destroying the trees nearest to him—to hunting as his father did.
When minutes have passed—hours, perhaps, but he wasn’t counting—and the sobs begin to subside, he releases his hold on her, just barely. His breath becomes deeper and steadier, his body weak.
“I couldn’t save her,” he finally manages, his voice mangled on the words.
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)
@Mazikeen