They'd been travelling for days; occasionally they would come across an empty outpost as they neared the border, places with cemetaries that stretched across fields. They grew gravestones instead of crops in places like these- or they had, when there were still people to bury.
Theron didn't feel guilty, but he hadn't expected to. The senseless slaughter of ten million souls didn't weigh on his conscience any more than the torture and mutilation of his closest- and only- friend.
They stopped at the last outpost before the border, bringing the total population of the place up to a whole six. The streets echoed with their steps; unlike the other outposts, which were sad collections of hovels, the border post contained a sizeable town. It had been inhabited mostly by pilgrims centuries ago, when the Fire Wall still burned.
Having a large population just meant larger cemetaries, though.
Bren found him perched on a mausoleum, looking out on the western road. "Still sulking?" Resurrection hadn't healed his voice; it still sounded like wind over gravel.
Theron didn't answer. He could still see pieces of Walker in Brenon's eyes, and he didn't like the way the bitterness looked on his friend. His opinions didn't matter anymore, though. They never really had- but now, they mattered even less.
-----
I know where I want this to go, but I don't know how to get it there. And even if I did, it's so completely unfair to both of them, I'm not sure I'd want to. (Theron's life sucks. A lot.)
I need to stop writing Stella Matin aftermath stuff and write the actual story.
In other news, I keep gnawing on Wind, Sand, and Bone/Stone (can't decide which yet), but I can't figure out where it's going. Temari is the wind part of the equation, obviously, and the part that represents hatred towards the present; Gaara is sand, hatred for the past, and love; Kankurou is the piece that bridges the two them, and represents stone, the static element- it's a completley shitty place to be, really, but somebody has to be there. He's also an actor in every way, and it's completely his fault I'm writing sandcest. (Sometimes the boy is so Prufrockian it hurts. *sigh*) I need more late late night inspiration and less inane babble, I think. But I do like parts of it; the writing pleases me, for the most part.
Excerpt:
Kankurou has no face of his own. He is a puppet whose puppeteer has long since moved on; rather than cutting the strings, he has chosen to tangle himself even further in them. He doesn't mind. It's easier that way- so much easier to let his brother and sister bury themselves in the tangled mess of him while they search for themselves. He loses track of which part he plays in the tragedy of their lives, sometimes, but Temari and Gaara never notice when he misplaces the script. He is a minor character, nothing more.
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