Swiftcurrent Creek i brought you my bullets; you brought me your love

Grief was a funny thing. Some wallowed in it. Some stuffed it down.

Some stuffed it down their throats and wallowed in it;

And some let that choking mass sit and fester in their stomach, all the while the rest of them turning cold and dead to the world.

Some, all of the above.

He had a complicated relationship with grief. He'd always had. As he approached the lands of his birth, the steady murmur of the stream brought to mind his mother, and he wanted to flinch away. Just as she had, in her cowardice or engimatic nature or whatever the fuck it'd been.

He was both coward and enigma, born and built in her image.

And yet here he stood, silent upon the banks of Swiftcurrent Creek, watching the late spring current move along the rocks and whorls of the old waterway.

He sought her here;

He knew she would not come.