{open like the sky}
Linden is feeling very sincerely tired, and more than that very old--it's gotten to the point where by sheer force of will he can appear ordinary, but there's no disguising that the grey has spread to all his hair, and that his pleasant face is exceedingly worn.
He walks quietly, hands folded on his cane, in an old coat--despite telling Molly he could easily get another, he hasn't yet done so.
After a while he stops and sits down on a bench that's cold beneath him, and finds his hands are cold, and so is the rest of him. His eyes ache and his joints seem stiff.
It disturbs him that no prayer he makes is heard. It disturbs him that lately he's dreamed of nothing but his father and mother, and that the scars on his stomach are deep and knotty. He puts the cane across his knees, and begins flipping the black heart back and forth through his fingers, back and forth, back and forth.
Back and forth.
He walks quietly, hands folded on his cane, in an old coat--despite telling Molly he could easily get another, he hasn't yet done so.
After a while he stops and sits down on a bench that's cold beneath him, and finds his hands are cold, and so is the rest of him. His eyes ache and his joints seem stiff.
It disturbs him that no prayer he makes is heard. It disturbs him that lately he's dreamed of nothing but his father and mother, and that the scars on his stomach are deep and knotty. He puts the cane across his knees, and begins flipping the black heart back and forth through his fingers, back and forth, back and forth.
Back and forth.