It's gruesome. Startling — as a child recoils from gore, bone peeking marrow, raw. Ungilded. Nothing so near a grandfather's leathered hand.
Ritual transfigures. Saws and hooks, flesh from cage. There are shapes that kill, and there are others that return. So it's a kindness. So he means it, when he says:
"Sounds nice," Sounds awful, too, torn apart by so many beaks. Obliteration. Nothing left to mourn; a thumb smeared through so much ink. He's never had the words to measure a pyre, the disgust of it. The appeal. "Guess 's not so different. Cycles and energy."
"When souls go to the Fade, to the other side, they push spirits out." He’s seen enough of thin places to believe it. Death draws them close; claws scratching at shroud. "It's... they need somewhere t'go. A body. So we keep them. Mortalitasi, they're not priests, not exactly. They guide the spirits in."
A breath out.
"But can’t everyone afford that. Gotta find other ways t'settle the Veil, remember your people."
There are bones under the Vhenadahl, he’d told Vanya. There were paintings in the market, too, oil and board and filled in to match: These eyes, that hair, for those gone too far to catch and hold. Dripping candles and bright paint. Autumn festivals, garlands on the high statues; flowers, bells. Kings, heroes. Teeth. Hunger.
Obliteration.
There are bones under the Vhenadahl, and he's always wondered if they crawled up beside the rest. Cedric shakes his head, as if for a fly,
"That what you'd want done? Th'birds."
They're both a league from home. Unlikely to die there.
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Ritual transfigures. Saws and hooks, flesh from cage. There are shapes that kill, and there are others that return. So it's a kindness. So he means it, when he says:
"Sounds nice," Sounds awful, too, torn apart by so many beaks. Obliteration. Nothing left to mourn; a thumb smeared through so much ink. He's never had the words to measure a pyre, the disgust of it. The appeal. "Guess 's not so different. Cycles and energy."
"When souls go to the Fade, to the other side, they push spirits out." He’s seen enough of thin places to believe it. Death draws them close; claws scratching at shroud. "It's... they need somewhere t'go. A body. So we keep them. Mortalitasi, they're not priests, not exactly. They guide the spirits in."
A breath out.
"But can’t everyone afford that. Gotta find other ways t'settle the Veil, remember your people."
There are bones under the Vhenadahl, he’d told Vanya. There were paintings in the market, too, oil and board and filled in to match: These eyes, that hair, for those gone too far to catch and hold. Dripping candles and bright paint. Autumn festivals, garlands on the high statues; flowers, bells. Kings, heroes. Teeth. Hunger.
Obliteration.
There are bones under the Vhenadahl, and he's always wondered if they crawled up beside the rest. Cedric shakes his head, as if for a fly,
"That what you'd want done? Th'birds."
They're both a league from home. Unlikely to die there.