(no subject)
It should have been raining.
Wasn't that how all tragedies ended? A downpour of rain; the heavens mourning the hero's death. There was none of that now, only the hot sun and the occasional caw of the first of many crows. Bookman clutched the body tighter. He could feel the blood coagulating between his fingers, feel its flow finally stopping and the flesh finally cooling.
It should have been raining.
Rain at least would have washed the stain away, cleaned the blood that had spilled like so much ink.
His stomach lurched and twisted violently. The boy wasn't just ink, he knew that now. He never really had been. He was Allen Walker, and he had died in the act of saving them.
Bookman felt a tiny hand on his shoulder.
"Papa."
It took him a moment for the words and voice to filter through the haze. Knell, it was Knell. He looked up and saw her startled beneath her mask for a moment, that same tiny hand coming to press against his face. She was bewildered.
"You're crying."
He loosed his grip from the corpse to touch his cheek, suddenly as dumbfounded as her. His hand came back red and slick with tears. "...So I am."
The silence stretched between them for an eternity, apprentice watching the failure of her mentor; watching the world fall apart.
It was broken abruptly when Knell dropped to fling her arms around his neck, a plea and apology all at once. Bookman set his hand atop her arms, silent.
If the heavens refused to weep, then they would.