patheticvillain | thirty-four ➢ voice + spam

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thirty-four ➢ voice + spam

Czeslaw's gone. His door and everything is blank.

. . . I don't really think he made many friends while he was here, but. I'm going to light a candle for him, if anybody wants to join me.

spam } chapel

[It's quiet and still in here, which is good; it matches how Cassel is feeling. Quiet and still, like a windless world. He doesn't know what to make of this reaction. He can feel himself grieving, but it's muted, as though muffled by layers and layers of cloth.]

[With aching fingers he carves Czeslaw's name into a white candle, uses his lighter to light it. After a moment of watching the flame, he carves another name - Slevin's - into another candle, and Daneca's into a third, and hopes (doesn't pray) that they wake.]

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Hey.

[He glances up at her, blank in his mourning.]

Wanna light a candle for anybody?

...Sure. [She was never that religious, even knowing gods existed. But this is different; this is private remembrance, private hope.

Her fingers hover in front of the candles, and she's not sure, exactly, who she ought to be remembering. There are so many people she's lost.

Maybe, then, this should be about hope.

Carefully, she etches Aslan into the surface.]

[Cassel's not religious, either. Maybe he was once, because he was supposed to be, but now he doesn't believe in God or gods or anything like that. He just believes in people and memories, for whatever those are worth.]

[He bites on his lip while she scratches the name. He doesn't know it, assumes it's someone from home. If he knew it was the Emperor, he wouldn't know what to say, and would do the same thing he does now: light the candle for Barbara and lean against her side.]

They're pretty.

[It's instinct, really, to wrap her arm around his shoulders.]

They are.

[He snuggles into her grip, making himself as comfortable and safe as he can manage, as things stand.]

I never knew how to make loss beautiful, before here.

I never knew how to make anything beautiful.

You always had the potential. [Her words are soft, as she stares into the flames.] All you needed was a chance to find it.

He deserved that chance, too.

[And suddenly, just like that, he's crying, pressing his face into her shoulder and letting his tears fall onto her sleeve like it's nothing. It isn't. He's overwhelmed and confused and he's never felt more like a child, but at least he can be vulnerable for a minute with her.]

[Her arms tightens around him, holding him close and letting him cry. She remembers feeling like this; like she'd failed, like she was helpless. She remembers pounding at her punching bag for hours, as if that would change how unfair it all was.]

I've got you. [It's one thing she can promise, at least for now.]

[He cries himself out relatively quickly. He's figured out how to be efficient about it - how to cry really hard for a few minutes and be done. It's less embarrassing that way, somehow.]

I know, [he says once he's got his breath back, and sniffs.] Sorry.

[She raises her arm, just for a moment, to lightly bat his head.] Don't be.

I am, okay?

[He ducks his head.]

Getting snot on your nice shirt.

Washes out much easier than blood does.

Please don't tell me you've done a side-by-side comparison.

Well, now that you mention it...

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thirty-four ➢ voice + spam

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