Men die. It’s practically what they’re for.
deathless !
death is an absolute, she knows this, just as Zorya Polunochnaya knows. she avoids the statement, avoids what it means and how painful it is, how heavily it weighs in her heart. she brings life back with a kiss, breathes air into their lungs. she shares her gift with very few. she avoids the statement as she avoids the very idea of death. because she can feel it, their rotting, wilting forms six feet under the soft earth. she does not deal well with grief, or sorrow, and recently it seems these are the emotions perching across her shoulders, tangling between her ribs. she will not admit she blames the wolf for this. ostara shifts, delicate fingers teasing over the trinkets the midnight star has collected. “- - you should really start a garden up here.” false smile pulls her lips upward.
