The Sunspire iii. please take my hands

“Aiwë,” He tastes her name, fluid, simple. Lovely.

Lovely for the mourning dove who’s eyes slip from his, stolen by the little trickle of brook. He cants himself, an oblique curl set to wonder upon his counterpart in her luminance. A play to steal her back.

There  is  no  single answer as to how they’re bound.  And on this mortal plane they are  each so very different. The only thing they share is death. 

“Where will you go in death, Aiwë?” He searches her eyes for glints of recognition. Her mother tongue is smooth like the forest language. Perhaps there is not understanding.

No matter, an apt teacher is Seth.