I was a poor boy; you were a bright light
I was a sinner and you were a snake
Brigade has never been particularly forthcoming with his words, and he finds that it is a skill that has not flourished in the time after death. He has not grown more clever with the turns of phrase. He has not been able to suss out a way to communicate that does not leave others furious or disappointed or, like she looks at him now, confused. Perhaps someday he will learn how to talk with others without such negative consequences, but he knows he is not capable of it today—if anything, he’s only gotten worse.
His laugh is bitter as he shakes his dark head, antlers swinging slightly.
“I never know what I mean,” he confesses, even though it’s only a half truth. He usually knows exactly what he means to say—but he certainly wishes he had a heart that let him mean something else. A way for him to be softer and kinder, to be able to split himself open and share the good pieces first.
Instead he grows quiet and sullen, his stormy gaze moving to the water and watching it rage. “I suppose I mean that I am sorry for scolding you,” he finally manages after several minutes of silence—quiet enough that she may not hear if she wasn’t paying attention, but not so quiet that he could be accused of trying to obscure it. He rolls his shoulders again, uncomfortable with the personal nature of what comes next.
“It feels unfair to have yelled at you so often for trying to meet your death when I was the first to do it,” he gives a quirk of his wine red lips before shaking his head. “It’s not great—dying, you know.” He wishes he could find a way to be clearer, to get to the point, but he dances around the subject, unable to find a place to land. “But it’s also not the worst thing, I suppose.” He finally drags his eyes back to her.
“I still think you should try to avoid it, if you can.”
shook like some old souls when our bones broke
swallowed the sickness, a fever, a flame
