A long time ago, back when Le Jardin was still open, I used to go to the crypt of a certain then-dead princeling and talk over my life with him. Well, with his ashen remains. Some of these talks were good for me. Not some few of them ended with me screaming at his crypt, berating him for dying.
It helped, in the downward spiral of that winter, to be able to talk to him, air my pain in open conversation, responded to or not. I had friends, but my lost princeling, at that point, I was more accustomed to speaking to, and I retained the habit with his corpse.
Now I'm here again. Sitting vigil, this time, candle burning against the darkness, the Longest Night, Yule. The turn of the key between winter and spring. Celebrate, make merry, rejoice in the sun's return, keep hearts warm and bodies surging with life and call it back, call it back, call it back!
And rejoice at its return.
I think rejoicing is somewhat beyond me. Worry's trumped that. And irritation over being worried. But I can't not worry. He was a part of my life for quite some time, and in the vast turbulence of my soul, there's still a place for him, as unnatural as it sounds.
So I sit in vigil for Bloodwing. And urge the Longest Night to pass quickly.
It never does, but tonight? Is going to be very, very long...