blood under the water

What if you died, Pyra? What then?

What would you want me to do with your burning corpse after all?

Or wouldn't you even have one left behind to be buried, to be spat upon and to be cherished and to be ravaged and to be secreted away to a place only I know because I CARE, Architect damn it all, I bloody CARE!

Cared, anyway.

But if you died, it'd be past tense. All gone away. I couldn't afford it, anymore.

God and your crusty old father be with ya, when you're going. And you've always been going. It should be so flippin' funny, but it ain't.

The way you wanted to die, and by wanting to die, you kept carrying on. The way I wasn't sure what I wanted, but it kept me going for the going's sake, and not the end of it all.

Always Pyra, Pyra, Pyra. As if you weren't lying to us the whole bloody time. Looked so pretty on the surface, but you were bleeding, and bleeding, and bleeding underneath. Bubbling. Boiling. Particularly when it was you who was beneath the skin, and her on top, on the outs.

I'm not mad about the lying. I'm not, honest I'm not. It's me who wasn't good enough for the truth, you who wasn't strong enough to tell it.

I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed.

And I'm scared.

What the bloody hell am I supposed to do without you now?

Without my burning southern star?