It is indeed a nightmare, but in its early stages. A scene he knows, a wake of a different tragedy that goes hand in hand with what's happening now. The boy blinks, eyes widening. He...he'd not been asked that. Not once, when they were preparing for Amita's funeral. He was trying to help Arturia. She's not okay. Is he...?
"I..."
There's blood on Arturia's hands. She'll be a fugitive for this. He couldn't stop her and he can't stop her now- why why why- Why is she smiling??
What...? No, those are just tears. She didn't mean to. He'll draw it out for her. Then it'll all make sense. It has to...
Things...flicker with Chirithy's question. The reflections in the mirror warp to other scenes, too quick to make out. Federico, older, sitting in a chair with a young girl huddled, scared, in his lap. Another where he's standing over a man, dying in the arms of some sort of statue- another still, where a sankta like him kneels next to him, helping him salvage a singed, fragile flower-
Richele asked him that, back then, didn't he...Federico didn't know how to answer then either. Why did he even ask...?
Little Federico distorts as well. It's as if he himself is the drawing for a second, the lines inside and out twisting and crossing in confusing, agitated patterns. His breath shudders. Arturia disappears. Now tears drip down his face.
"I don't know, Gattino. It's...never hurt this much. I do not know h-how to make sense of it."
The black mirror isn't...quite empty anymore. Some silvery, torn feathers lay on the floor inside, otherwise empty and still and silent. While the other reflections flicker away quickly, that one in particular, stays.
h. here's more abstract dream stuff
"I..."
There's blood on Arturia's hands. She'll be a fugitive for this. He couldn't stop her and he can't stop her now- why why why- Why is she smiling??
What...? No, those are just tears. She didn't mean to. He'll draw it out for her. Then it'll all make sense. It has to...
Things...flicker with Chirithy's question. The reflections in the mirror warp to other scenes, too quick to make out. Federico, older, sitting in a chair with a young girl huddled, scared, in his lap. Another where he's standing over a man, dying in the arms of some sort of statue- another still, where a sankta like him kneels next to him, helping him salvage a singed, fragile flower-
Richele asked him that, back then, didn't he...Federico didn't know how to answer then either. Why did he even ask...?
Little Federico distorts as well. It's as if he himself is the drawing for a second, the lines inside and out twisting and crossing in confusing, agitated patterns. His breath shudders. Arturia disappears. Now tears drip down his face.
"I don't know, Gattino. It's...never hurt this much. I do not know h-how to make sense of it."
The black mirror isn't...quite empty anymore. Some silvery, torn feathers lay on the floor inside, otherwise empty and still and silent. While the other reflections flicker away quickly, that one in particular, stays.