[As if that had been the point Eliot was trying to make, and Quentin wants it to be, just a little bit. He doesn't want to think about everything he's lost. Everything they've lost. But it's as if this whole night is pushing it at him, the ritualistic feeling to the scene playing out by the shore of the lake. The many beings making small tokens of grief to push in to the water, letting them sail away.
It tugs at him.
The want.
To be able to put his feelings about all of them in to little paper boats, light them up with magical rocks and send them off. To be a part of this, to mourn his dad all over again without the Monster breathing down his neck. Maybe make one for Arielle, too. He mourned her in Fillory. And again when they get the memories or the memories of memories back after the Throne Room and Margo's wedding.
Still resting against the solid trunk of the tree behind him, Quentin can almost see what the boats should look like. What he'd write on them, before folding them up.]
I've read a story about something like this once. About putting your last words to your dead loved ones in letters and sending them off? There's a place down there without a lot of people. Maybe-- [wistful sigh, and really, there's nothing stopping him but himself, but it just seems like a goodbye. Making a boat, and Quentin's not all that sure he wants to. Say goodbye.] we could make one? For the rest of them?
no subject
[As if that had been the point Eliot was trying to make, and Quentin wants it to be, just a little bit. He doesn't want to think about everything he's lost. Everything they've lost. But it's as if this whole night is pushing it at him, the ritualistic feeling to the scene playing out by the shore of the lake. The many beings making small tokens of grief to push in to the water, letting them sail away.
It tugs at him.
The want.
To be able to put his feelings about all of them in to little paper boats, light them up with magical rocks and send them off. To be a part of this, to mourn his dad all over again without the Monster breathing down his neck. Maybe make one for Arielle, too. He mourned her in Fillory. And again when they get the memories or the memories of memories back after the Throne Room and Margo's wedding.
Still resting against the solid trunk of the tree behind him, Quentin can almost see what the boats should look like. What he'd write on them, before folding them up.]
I've read a story about something like this once. About putting your last words to your dead loved ones in letters and sending them off? There's a place down there without a lot of people. Maybe-- [wistful sigh, and really, there's nothing stopping him but himself, but it just seems like a goodbye. Making a boat, and Quentin's not all that sure he wants to. Say goodbye.] we could make one? For the rest of them?