You are red, bright red. Crimson as the stubborn blood trapped beneath your fingernails that never seems to dry. Like pretty nail polish. And we, we are pitch black, dark as the rich soil your pale feet never touch. We are the tender bark of wise, ancient redwoods, the warm embrace of a dreamless sleep, the moonbathed bedroom in which you and your lover once rested.
Your life is a sad comedy of premature goodbyes (though this goodbye is long overdue) and abandoned hellos that only we can laugh at. But the joke is old now, and we can only sigh. How pitiful, to be older than the stones we are buried under yet still not have lived for as long as a star's fleeting twinkle. Your soul is old, but your appearance is young, your mind younger. You are a naive child in the center of our dense forest. But there's no need to be afraid; our leaves will shield you from the sun and stars. Blue flowers carpet our forest floor. Be careful not to trample on them.
I—we love you. We're sorry we can no longer pour your tea (or did you like coffee?), but he—I left instructions for our children. You don't have to worry. Eight spoonfuls of sugar. (Or was it seven?) We hope you continue to do well in school. If you need help, we'll whisper the answers in your ears. Don't worry, no one will notice.
Don't worry.
We've been doing this for a long time. We know how to whisper.
Here, let us help. Let us show you all there is to life, because we have lived and died so many times. Hear us laugh and weep for you have done neither.
We'll sing your lullabies and be your quiet night. As quiet as darkness, as silent as deep space. Please, go to sleep now. We'll do the same, and we'll be there when you wake up. We'll be with you always. Always. So turn off the lights and pull the covers over your delicate body. Trust us, we love you, Master.
I had written this with the intention of painting Dark Spear's darkness in a different light (no pun intended), but then it turned into this. Does...does this make sense? Is it clear what happened?