The cold metal is a breath away from drawing blood as he rotates it on his finger, catching glimpses of his own pale eyes, unfurrowed brow, uncurled lip, a blank slate of a face.
Breaking the silence her stomach rumbles, she should’ve left The Bastion earlier, he’d be eating like a king; the knife asks, why did you stay? But it falls on apathetic ears.
This empty world is so very loud, bustling with obstacles and resources. She wonders what might happen to it if she is not around to observe it, tracing the lines of logic that tell her it will cease to exist along with her; yet the hilt of his knife is engraved with a symbol, a wish to be burned after death.
She remembers the warmth of the fire that burned in ages past, but nothing remains of the faces that lay within it, because they are not important, they never were.
Only one thing matters. Eris.
{[]}