that day even the sun was afraid of you and the weight you carried
He notes the way she stiffens and then settles, his perception so much sharpened since he had been given these gifts. it is as though the veil had been ripped off and he was seeing things clearly for the first time—as though this was the truest reality of them all. As though he could finally understand the world as it was and not just his limited view of it. There was something comforting about that.
Something disconcerting too.
Firion gives no sign that he picks up on these things and instead just angles his head at her, the light passing through him and causing him to internally wince. “Am I alive?” he echoes, his voice nearly amused, lifting up on the edges as he ponders it. His lips purse. “You know how to ask the impossible questions, don’t you, Mazikeen?” But there is enough humor on his face to soften the sharp tone.
He wonders, sometimes, if he was actually alive. If this was all some fever dream. If he had finally succumbed to the curse. If he had lived his life and was not destined to haunt these same hills. Destined to walk over the same paths he had run as a young man and stumbled over in his half-dead form. A shiver races up his spine and he squashes down the fear he feels with a cruelty he reserves for himself.
“You did your best to ensure that I was not alive last time you saw me,” he muses, his body forming and reshaping into the last form he had worn before her. Torn into shreds. Flaps of skin hanging loosely from him. Bloodied smile, one scratch dangerously close to his golden eyes. He remains as that for a breath of time before he becomes himself again, this time appearing behind her in a plume of golden dust.
“But I am indeed alive.”
A chuckle, humorless.
“Apologies for that. I know you must be so disappointed.”
so you saluted every ghost you've ever prayed to and then buried it where bones are buried
@[Mazikeen]