#also the difference in amount of introspection... edwards super action-heavy

[lycianlynx]

LAND AND HEAVENS NEAR. Bluster, again. They keep pace in it, trying to muster up a lighter look in their eyes each time she looks back, pocketing her sunshine smile for that extra bit of courage. Maria steps forward without fear, with all the warmth of a hearth and home, lingering on his sleeve. He watches, then follows her forging ahead, settling in a crouch and watching, and —   

SHEEP IN WOLF'S CLOTHING. He’s not sure what to do, where to look, what to say. All the things he’s rehearsed, wanted to say turned to ash in his throat. Can’t look at his face, his hands, for fear of what is different, is the same, is alive and will be dead. He doesn’t even realise that he’s slipped up at first — Thought for a second that the name, too, was natural enough to know, Father’s image held fast in his heart for years.  

SABBAM VITATHAM. He knows Lugh. He knows Lugh like the lock in his bedroom door, like the places Father used to like hiding the snacks. He sees the anger kindle in Lugh’s eyes, in a place he can recognise it. The fear freezes over in an instant, because he can’t be scared in front of Lugh. One fire stokes another, dragon-fire and a holdover vendetta rearing its ugly head again. He can see it — Death brought not on the wings of Bernese wyverns, but on those of a legion of war-wyrms.  

HI GRIMACE I'M DAD. Broken hearts, empty homes — Ripped seams and worn fabric catching on the jagged edges of grief. You can try to patch ‘em all you like, sew it as cleanly as you can, restuff the damn thing fifty times over, but the original tear will always stay. They huff out an exhale bordering on an exasperated laugh as it hits them: They’re not over it, they want to cook with him again, want to hear his voice as he teaches them letters, wants to hear him hum to himself as he sweeps up, wants to hear him try and fail to walk quietly after everyone’s gone to bed…  

SLICE THROUGH LIFE. But isn’t that just being human, really? Crowding around eachother like porcupines, risking hurt for warmth, trying desperately not to prick. He worried about pricking her, sure; But it looks like he’s just as worried about being stung in turn. She’s tucked away her spines though, all the fire he feared. Or perhaps she’s shucked them off, to fly farther than these wishes, far, far, far…  

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