Limbo
Valina is lost, as she always was.
Not good enough, Ma said.
Pathetic, Pa said.
"Walk with me, my dear."
She's dead, and so is he. She's not the person who died, and neither is he.
They walk. They walk on aligned shards of glittering light. Shimmering in their eyes, a chiarscuro of nothing and something.
The guidance, she believes, is fatherly. This is not whom she loved, but she is not whom he commanded.
Maybe he thinks she's good enough, but she isn't. The thing that carried over isn't the clever sorceress. How fitting that when the talent died, it ceased to embody her soul.
Valina isn't worthy. Nevermind that—she never, ever was.
Such a shame, the alchemist tells himself, that this young girl found comfort in something he can never dare to give.
