[He said he would pray for D, and he's not the kind of sword who would go back on his word, so--
On Sunday, later in the evening, he kneels in the grass by the tree that they've started to put their makeshift graveyard together in, hands clasped together and eyes closed. Four crosses, now - each made from the branches of their first tree and fastened carefully together, set deep in the earth. Many are decorated with flowers. There is no one around at this hour, so he speaks aloud, as if there may be a way for the words that he sets free to be carried more easily to wherever these souls have returned, if they've returned anywhere at all.
His words are measured, first.]
With every breath, we share this world. With every step, we move toward an end. May we always feel our connection to those suffering, who deserve to find resilience in the truths that they carry within their hearts. Should they find peace within the confines of the system in which we must all exist, let it ease their burdens.
[And then, a little more freely spoken:]
May D find a moment's respite on the long path that he must follow. May the grief that he carries be worth what awaits. May he be delivered swiftly into a place of greater kindness. If life is a perpetual cruelty tied to the unchanging nature of humankind, then may he be freed from its shackles, from the hatred that holds him, and that he holds in turn. Please allow his body to return to the earth and bring forth new life in the world that he cared for so dearly, and allow his soul and mind to find tranquility in eternal sleep.
[In a strange mixture of the beliefs that he took on as penance and his own nature as a tsukumogami, he claps his hands together twice and then bows his head before the fresh cross. He then lifts up a garland of flowers in hues of purple and yellow, setting it neatly over the branches at their intersecting point.]
Though life and death both form an endless cycle, may peace exist in what falls beyond its shadow. Amen.
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w1 sunday im not late youre late
On Sunday, later in the evening, he kneels in the grass by the tree that they've started to put their makeshift graveyard together in, hands clasped together and eyes closed. Four crosses, now - each made from the branches of their first tree and fastened carefully together, set deep in the earth. Many are decorated with flowers. There is no one around at this hour, so he speaks aloud, as if there may be a way for the words that he sets free to be carried more easily to wherever these souls have returned, if they've returned anywhere at all.
His words are measured, first.]
With every breath, we share this world. With every step, we move toward an end. May we always feel our connection to those suffering, who deserve to find resilience in the truths that they carry within their hearts. Should they find peace within the confines of the system in which we must all exist, let it ease their burdens.
[And then, a little more freely spoken:]
May D find a moment's respite on the long path that he must follow. May the grief that he carries be worth what awaits. May he be delivered swiftly into a place of greater kindness. If life is a perpetual cruelty tied to the unchanging nature of humankind, then may he be freed from its shackles, from the hatred that holds him, and that he holds in turn. Please allow his body to return to the earth and bring forth new life in the world that he cared for so dearly, and allow his soul and mind to find tranquility in eternal sleep.
[In a strange mixture of the beliefs that he took on as penance and his own nature as a tsukumogami, he claps his hands together twice and then bows his head before the fresh cross. He then lifts up a garland of flowers in hues of purple and yellow, setting it neatly over the branches at their intersecting point.]
Though life and death both form an endless cycle, may peace exist in what falls beyond its shadow. Amen.
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