That's when I started to sob uncontrollably. I knew inthat moment that I could never, must never tell them you were dead. Icouldn't do that to them. And so I cried for you, for their loss andfor mine, cried like I never had before. I was inconsolable.The days and weeks that followed were almost unbearable. I don't knowhow you can be in such pain and still carry on, but you do. After afashion. The world seemed grey and tasteless with you gone, as if allthe joy had been sucked out of it, and I moved through it like aphantom. People were sympathetic, but anything more than a simple "I'msorry for your loss" was too much for me to cope with. Everything justhurt too much. At first, I couldn't bear to look at my reflection, knowing that every time I did I'd see you there, the ghost in themirror, reminding me what I'd lost. Later, I swung to the oppositeextreme. They say your body is a temple; well, mine became a shrine. Iwould spend hours at the dressing table meticulously doing my. It was beautiful and yet ... distinctly alien. The curves of it seemed to match no architecture that I had ever seen, in pictures or drawings or life. The walls looked more like wings than something to keep away cold or wind, and beautiful eyes had been carved into every feather. The front door was a circular iris, which opened with a quiet hiss as I trudged towards it.The building’s interior was only slightly warmer than the exterior, and my breath still fogged as I looked around slowly. The interior of the building was decorated by strange mosaics. They showed figures – human-like, but drawn with exaggerated faces or muscles, wild beards and glaring eyes. To my left, I could see a billowing mass of men and women armed with weapons. Some were recognizable – swords, spears, rifles, revolvers. Others were stranger, but still easily recognized. Beams of energy projected from sleek pistols. Rods of light that seemed to burn anything that drew close. And some people held items that.
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