7.2.1 A.A. Milne Quote | 7s_prompts
Carter Hall crouches in front of a gravestone in one of the smaller cemeteries that Metropolis has to offer, eyes barely acknowledging the words chiseled there. A hand lifts anyway, reaching out to remove some late winter debris away from the eye of Horus settled beneath her name.
SHIERA SAUNDERS HALL. BELOVED.
He should have buried her in Egypt, the heat and desert sand cradling her remains instead of this impersonal resting place.
There have been times over the past decade when he wants to curl up against this slab of rock and wait for hunger and exhaustion to steal away his ka, to lift him above the petty concerns of ordinary life into the next one, where he'll start the hunt for his wife all over again. But there was Nelson to look after, and the Society possessions to guard, and even at his most depressed Carter would rather hunt down his enemies and die a warrior's death.
He's been attempting the cowards way out, he knows that, and it's a strange sort of resignation that he's been living with. Avoiding most team members, shutting down the museum, and waving away offers of archeological digs across the world are just a few of the ways he's found to stop caring. Stop living. If you wait long enough, Death will always come knocking.
Or, if someone is very, very lucky, Death will waive his appointment a little longer, and conspire with Fate in the form of a twenty two year old reporter with some amazing abilities, and, more important, the moral center to use them well.
"You're going to have to wait a longer for me, my love."
Carter keeps his head bowed, fingers drifting away from the gravestone to remove a small scarab from his pocket and set it at the base of the grave. It's the latest in a long line of trinkets, some of which have already been whisked away by petty hands, brought only because he still cannot bear to not buy her things, even if only in memory.
"The Society is rising again. We're gathering the old gang together," the ones that aren't dead, "and hopefully mentoring a new group that's appeared. They've got a long way to go, but I think there's a lot of potential there. The leader called it a 'work in progress', something I think you'd appreciate."
There isn't much more to say. A few minutes pass by before he straightens up. He still feels hollow inside, the other half of his heart missing until the next incarnation cycle, but its not quite as bad as it was. Perhaps the blame, or accolades, for that can be laid at the feet of the Kryptonian and his team - one that will stand beside him.
"I miss you."
Carter turns away in the next few moments, hands shoving themselves in jean pockets as he ambles away from the gravesite, the sunset fading away from its glorious reds and golds into something a little more silver. Maybe it's an omen of the age to come.
SHIERA SAUNDERS HALL. BELOVED.
He should have buried her in Egypt, the heat and desert sand cradling her remains instead of this impersonal resting place.
There have been times over the past decade when he wants to curl up against this slab of rock and wait for hunger and exhaustion to steal away his ka, to lift him above the petty concerns of ordinary life into the next one, where he'll start the hunt for his wife all over again. But there was Nelson to look after, and the Society possessions to guard, and even at his most depressed Carter would rather hunt down his enemies and die a warrior's death.
He's been attempting the cowards way out, he knows that, and it's a strange sort of resignation that he's been living with. Avoiding most team members, shutting down the museum, and waving away offers of archeological digs across the world are just a few of the ways he's found to stop caring. Stop living. If you wait long enough, Death will always come knocking.
Or, if someone is very, very lucky, Death will waive his appointment a little longer, and conspire with Fate in the form of a twenty two year old reporter with some amazing abilities, and, more important, the moral center to use them well.
"You're going to have to wait a longer for me, my love."
Carter keeps his head bowed, fingers drifting away from the gravestone to remove a small scarab from his pocket and set it at the base of the grave. It's the latest in a long line of trinkets, some of which have already been whisked away by petty hands, brought only because he still cannot bear to not buy her things, even if only in memory.
"The Society is rising again. We're gathering the old gang together," the ones that aren't dead, "and hopefully mentoring a new group that's appeared. They've got a long way to go, but I think there's a lot of potential there. The leader called it a 'work in progress', something I think you'd appreciate."
There isn't much more to say. A few minutes pass by before he straightens up. He still feels hollow inside, the other half of his heart missing until the next incarnation cycle, but its not quite as bad as it was. Perhaps the blame, or accolades, for that can be laid at the feet of the Kryptonian and his team - one that will stand beside him.
"I miss you."
Carter turns away in the next few moments, hands shoving themselves in jean pockets as he ambles away from the gravesite, the sunset fading away from its glorious reds and golds into something a little more silver. Maybe it's an omen of the age to come.