even after they have been stepped on
He does not tell her that he can see her burning. That he has seen Isra burning, and before her, Reichenbach, and before him, Vale; he does not tell her that he, too, is burning. In the end, it would not make a difference.
There are some metals that are strengthened by the fire, made harder, and sharper, to be forged into something new. And there were other metals that only grew brittle, and cracked. Metals that would never renew themselves like phoenixes in the flames.
He had wondered once, which she might be. If she would burn brighter than Isra or be burned up in trying to be more, if she would consume her fears and her dreams or be consumed by them. And he supposes now, when he stands from his makeshift altar and faces her, that he need wonder no more.
He hopes she will find her peace.
“Perhaps now it is time for you to look inward and search for what it is you want. Without the court, or the crown, or the expectations you have laid on yourself. We all need to find what makes us happy to survive.” He speaks slowly, and it seems to him that he is looking for the darkness in her for his words to take root in. He knows it is there (it was there in them all; it was there in his own heart, between the sand and the soil and the memories.) He does not know that he can help her. And it draws one more crack through his soul, one more weight added to the rest of the boulders he carries again and again and again up this mountain.
She is already moving away from him, the light of her axe dimming, when he sighs. “May peace be with you, Antiope.” The light winks from existence. “I hope you find what you are looking for.” And when he steps out of the temple, it is not so much to follow her as it is to walk beside her.
Ipomoea knows it is easier to find oneself with a friend to lean against.
@Antiope
"Speaking."
