The fabric would have yielded to fire, to acid, but there's a deep satisfaction in using their hands to break the seams. Tearing it apart, until it's only shreds mixed and mingled with the remains of Fever's costume - red and black, remnants on the floor, a mess left for the sheer defiance of it. Fake blood, fake everything, left to be destroyed along with the rest of this place. It doesn't get to survive. It gets to be pulled up by the foundations.
Time passes, after the death of the Prince. People go home. Fever finds her own bed and sleeps fitfully, like she used to. But time passes, and thankfully, they have been allowed to breathe. So things settle into a routine again - including visiting the Temple and offering a helping hand there. Degas never tells her she can't, and sometimes existing in a space that's quieter helps.
It is, however, impossible to fully sweep when some residents would rather bat at the broom, or lay down and refuse to move. And so she's cleaning and tending one of the altars instead, removing old offerings and giving it care. Three have come to lazily witness - a more ragged looking black cat, a solemn gray tabby, and Christopher Mango, who seems again more amazed at the fact that he draws breath every day.
Hearing the door open, she looks up from her work, eyes widening a little when she sees who it is.
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The fabric would have yielded to fire, to acid, but there's a deep satisfaction in using their hands to break the seams. Tearing it apart, until it's only shreds mixed and mingled with the remains of Fever's costume - red and black, remnants on the floor, a mess left for the sheer defiance of it. Fake blood, fake everything, left to be destroyed along with the rest of this place. It doesn't get to survive. It gets to be pulled up by the foundations.
Time passes, after the death of the Prince. People go home. Fever finds her own bed and sleeps fitfully, like she used to. But time passes, and thankfully, they have been allowed to breathe. So things settle into a routine again - including visiting the Temple and offering a helping hand there. Degas never tells her she can't, and sometimes existing in a space that's quieter helps.
It is, however, impossible to fully sweep when some residents would rather bat at the broom, or lay down and refuse to move. And so she's cleaning and tending one of the altars instead, removing old offerings and giving it care. Three have come to lazily witness - a more ragged looking black cat, a solemn gray tabby, and Christopher Mango, who seems again more amazed at the fact that he draws breath every day.
Hearing the door open, she looks up from her work, eyes widening a little when she sees who it is.
"Hi, Ellen."