of havens in hell
"I'm Jet," he offers from beneath vagabond, but not to her face. Then his own visage twists into a grimace and he adds, like a bitter after-taste, "Or at least, I was."
"Song," she returns, too numb for past-tense.
They're sitting on a thick tree root, arched high above the swamp water. Song dangles her legs over the edge, swinging her feet like she did when she was five and wished that she were older.
Somehow, she thought that the Spirit World would be a little more impressive.
"What are you – we, now?"
Jet sighs, the sound seems far too tired to be dead, stares up into the twisted labyrinth of tree vines and branches that hang overhead, and doesn't answer.