Unlike other spirits who had risen Reyes had not managed to pull himself together enough to be more than a wailing voice, and while he at times looked together enough for a glance or two the tumult of his emotions would break him apart again and again, to the point that he was more akin to a red mist at times, or a singular voice carrying over the red leaves as they came away from the trees. There weren't many left upon the trees of the little island and as such, the power holding him upon the mortal plane also appeared to be weakening.
He could no longer be seen pacing the island. Winter would bury him again; the green of spring would touch the caldera and he would sleep; dreaming through a rose colored summer of his life and then his death in the autumn. He was stuck now in this mindless cyclical existence and he did not know it.
Now, as he was pacing for a final time, Reyes was calling out for a daughter he knew was not here or a wife who he knew had moved on; the pain of him was the rattle through the empty fingers of the trees. Bellowing names upon the wind:
There would be no answer, as at last his voice failed him, and he was nothing once again.
He could no longer be seen pacing the island. Winter would bury him again; the green of spring would touch the caldera and he would sleep; dreaming through a rose colored summer of his life and then his death in the autumn. He was stuck now in this mindless cyclical existence and he did not know it.
Now, as he was pacing for a final time, Reyes was calling out for a daughter he knew was not here or a wife who he knew had moved on; the pain of him was the rattle through the empty fingers of the trees. Bellowing names upon the wind:
Sorana!
Teya!
Caracal!
Towhee!
There would be no answer, as at last his voice failed him, and he was nothing once again.
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