21 --- For Akaneia (Redux) ♦ Their Meaning - [Video]
[Marth is in the greenhouse. He's not tending to the flowers, mind you, but it would seem he is planting some. Bellflowers. He's picked an awful lot to leave at Midna's door. She'll come home and drown in them. Or maybe they'll all be dead. It's rather hard to say. All the say, he's planting bellflowers.
His tunic, a natural tan colour is worn loosely. The Falchion lies aside along with his cape. The only piece he doesn't seem to be missing is his tiara. The video feed is propped up to get a better look at him. He is studious and thoughtful.]
It is like an illness, I sometimes think. This... plethora of sentiments. I have not forgotten a single day. I have not forgotten a single moment. And I did know the very last time crossed paths occurred where I stood. I wonder, have I fallen out of favor? And if I have, how shall I get back into it?
I feel as though that time is coming shortly. How much longer must I restrain it? For it grows like an animal, as though it could run and wreck havoc. Surely my leash on it will soon break. But perhaps if I were to expose it too soon...? How does one determine when the right time is?
[He pauses. As though in some form of guilt or regret. Then he continues as the flicker of expression passes and he resumes his contemplation.]
I ask of you, dearest Final Destination inhabitants, how shall a canary be caught? Not captured, not caged, but rather that the eyes be taken with a single glance, so that the necessary words be bestowed? Or perhaps it is not words I ought to be using. What say you?
[Another pause. He sits back to admire his handiwork. Then his chin tips up to eye the ceiling of the greenhouse.]
She has not yet returned. I miss her. I hope she is well. I have want to write to her, but perhaps she cares not to see or hear from me. And perhaps I am but a fool.
His tunic, a natural tan colour is worn loosely. The Falchion lies aside along with his cape. The only piece he doesn't seem to be missing is his tiara. The video feed is propped up to get a better look at him. He is studious and thoughtful.]
It is like an illness, I sometimes think. This... plethora of sentiments. I have not forgotten a single day. I have not forgotten a single moment. And I did know the very last time crossed paths occurred where I stood. I wonder, have I fallen out of favor? And if I have, how shall I get back into it?
I feel as though that time is coming shortly. How much longer must I restrain it? For it grows like an animal, as though it could run and wreck havoc. Surely my leash on it will soon break. But perhaps if I were to expose it too soon...? How does one determine when the right time is?
[He pauses. As though in some form of guilt or regret. Then he continues as the flicker of expression passes and he resumes his contemplation.]
I ask of you, dearest Final Destination inhabitants, how shall a canary be caught? Not captured, not caged, but rather that the eyes be taken with a single glance, so that the necessary words be bestowed? Or perhaps it is not words I ought to be using. What say you?
[Another pause. He sits back to admire his handiwork. Then his chin tips up to eye the ceiling of the greenhouse.]
She has not yet returned. I miss her. I hope she is well. I have want to write to her, but perhaps she cares not to see or hear from me. And perhaps I am but a fool.