@withlwolves / cont.
“Everything dies.”
Notice how he says everything and not everyone, as though the deathless die too, as though even the smallest pebble and the tallest mountain will eventually disintegrate into the same dust nothingness and that will be their death, too, because everything dies and nothing can outrun Her once she arrives. Joaquín does know better, by simple virtue that he has known the world for longer -- her father a mere forethought inside her grandmother’s belly around the same time he was out here, killing fledgling gods. He knows what she is, knows of the fire, his flat gaze cutting right past her apathetic act much like teeth through tendons, and taking to her gestures like codices on stretched deerskin.
Many amongst her kind pray to him and she doesn’t even know that, but he cannot blame her for that when she does not even know herself.
The kitkat bar breaks cleanly under his fingers. He plops a piece into his mouth, but doesn’t chew, letting the chocolate melt on flaring tastebuds instead. “Some things just take longer than others. Drone ants live up to three weeks. I’m sure they feel immortal too, if they live a day longer than that.”
