lightbursted:
@maskedarchivist
The sun was slowly setting, staining the Lake of the Koi with a warm orange and welcoming Spirale citizens to light candles for their lost and remembered.
Ori dipped a hand into the water, well-hidden beneath the dock leading into the centre of the lake. They sat upon one of the wooden supports, eyes closed; they were listening in on the sounds of the evening, feeling the reverberations as they dipped their hand into the water. Still warm, but cooling as the night approached.
Footsteps above drew the spirit guardian out of their meditative state, eyes blinking open slowly, as if previously locked closed with sleep. They rubbed at their face and looked up with a curious hum, noticing people passing the dock, candles in hand, murmuring amongst themselves. They turned yet again when they felt ripples reaching their hand, withdrawing it from the water and quickly looking to what was moving about - a boat, full of lit candles and lanterns. They tilted their head, lost on what was going on.
Ori made their way up the support beams, planting their hands on the edge of the dock and peering at some of the people passing - they would have asked literally anyone about the current events, but the familiarity of this certain bug … he was just too striking.
“Hei!” they chirped to Quirrel, half-waving to him, half-beckoning him to come over. Was this … it was that nice fish that helped them fight their shadow that one time, wasn’t it? He was on land suddenly!
He understands the purpose of this festival quite well, in his own way. Lighting candles and boats for those now far away is not all that dissimilar to fragments of memories, of lighting candles for the dead.
He doesn’t remember
- the candles flicker at the empty grave and he doesn’t know why he’s filled with a sudden, urgent sadness; he walks in the Resting Grounds, in their eerie silence, and his heart feels like it’s going to burst; lit by the glow of an empty tank, the rush of acid blending with the sound of water, he tries to remember her voice-
if he’d mourned for her.
He doesn’t know if she’d want him to.
He’s snapped out of his reverie by a familiar voice. He makes it a point never to forget a face, and this one is certainly distinct enough that he wouldn’t forget.
His eyes crinkle in a smile, and he waves back, practically skipping closer. Now that there’s no war to worry about, nothing too drastic, he’s far cheerier than he was when they first met.
“Hello and well met, my small friend! You’re doing well, I see!” Or, at least, he hopes.
“But I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, the last time we met. My name is Quirrel - who do I have the pleasure of knowing?”
