there is blood on my hands. there is a shadow in my soul. some nights, i pick at it as i might a scab, bruise blooming beneath it, dark and inflamed. i have been ensnared by the soul edge, the malfestation has burrowed behind my rib, and i have desecrated the monastery, and i have murdered my eldest sister, and there was an instant– caught in the amber of the evening sun too beautiful for such heavy loss– that i might have slain my closest companion as well. in only four years, grief has become synonymous with retribution. my duty shall not be his death.
THE CATHEDRAL : with what little remained of our travels, we’ve bandaged maxi ‘til his heartbeat mimicked the sound of the sea again. xianghua sleeps beside us, so we lean close, our voices caught under the rainfall. we’ve taken cover from the sudden downpour in the far remains, and i keep kali- yuga at arm’s length, its energy an obscurity, temptations tessellating and dangled before me like faded crepuscular stars, barely visible in this leaden, brumal night.
... i pray that the shower cleanses the staff of his blood, that i do not have to touch it myself, working it out of the woodgrain. yet when he speaks, he’s kissed by the moon, and i am reminded that his fate has been secured one moment longer: “ this is not the day i die, i promise you. ” and in this, he sounds so sure.
come first light, the tides will invite us once more. i will feel the ache of battle settle into my marrow and i will be grateful for the sleep it brings– lulled with the rocking of the ship. but now, i place my hand on his shoulder ( the warm beneath the fabric is enough ), and i hang my head with a weak huff of a laugh. “ you seemed eager enough earlier, maxi. ‘s enough promises for today… aren’t you exhausted yet ? ” @umbrarch
