that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried
The magic has a way of amplifying him. Twisting who he is. It tears him apart every night and then pieces him together in the morning until there is a time and place where he does not recognize his reflection. It draws him away from Beqanna into lands he doesn’t know. Pulls him further and further until he walks amongst the stars, until his eyes are unseeing and he comprehends the world through the other senses. The ones that he knows and the ones that are unveiled to him as he walks, each piece becoming new again.
Then, piece by piece, he returns to himself.
He slowly unravels and then spools together, stitching himself into physical form. The first thing that he thinks of is his hunger. A ravenous feeling that gnaws in his belly—something real and tangible and he nearly weeps with the normalcy of waking up and desiring nothing but food. And thus he eats.
And when his belly stretches and he feels sated, he slakes his thirst.
And when that is quenched, he finally makes his way back to Beqanna—choosing to walk even though his magic buzzes beneath his skin, a temptation to simply walk through worlds. To pinch the fabric of time and space and appear on the other side. But he desires the normalcy. Desires the ache that builds in his legs as he makes his way to Beqanna once more, the common lands stretching before him.
His heart clenches in his chest, something like pain or need or fear, and he simply stands upon the cusp of the meadow. His golden eyes sharpened and lit from within, his mouth a stern slash across his face.
It is home and yet not.
He is both himself and yet not.
And yet not.
so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried
