A bit late on the draw again. Got two more prompts to catch up on in addition to this most recent one too. A Zero/Fieth piece for the "Disaster" prompt: You knew as the sky cracked open what would come, where you'd go. You knew before it even. That's why you'd snuck out at dawn before she and her rose, either, and went off, off into the woods to better hear the song. A funeral dirge. Those were the words and the faces you saw were hers and hers and there were others too, oh yes, but that image of those hordes can't compare to even one tenth of seeing theirs, not at all. Yet knowing this, resting with it even as you march to your death, yet knowing this all you can't go calmly when she looks at you at the ledge and asks "Fieth? What's wrong?" because you know, you do, you know that you'll never see that face and that she'll never see your face and that this'll be the last time, the very last. And this? This terrifies you. What is left when the storm passes? A man dies crushed by the winds in their fury and you say a word, sing a song, telling them all to move, to move, to keep blowing on by, to keep moving on by. But who will sing now? Who will look to her and her and tell them both, them both, with all firmness, just as needed, to be as the wind free and unyielding, always, always, even in this, even in the face of grief? Who will clasp their hands on her gripping her shoulders and reminding her again that you'll sing now, sing still, a breeze yourself. Who will help her and she shape the wood into pleasing shapes fit enough to find your voice and bring it forth with a clatter at the window sill? Certainly not you. Yet as she looks pleading for just an explanation, just one, all you can do is grin and shrug and blow it off with a "Nothing at all!" before you're gone, never to see her again. Because you saw her and you saw what comes of her if she knows more than this. You know how she chases, how she follows and you know what comes to her. And you saw her and what comes of her if you do not go. The world will shake to pieces, torn apart by men who aren't men no more and who will leave Re-Earth dead in their wake, bodies and bodies beyond counting piled up, but those two? That one? They are the weightiest bodies of them all and so for them more than this world you love, you offer up your own in exchange to answer the wind's song. But as you go, stepping off branch after branch you think of the look in her eye and you think of how you lied and you think of what she'll say and how she'll feel and what she'll do. You never kept your promises, you never told the truth, never ever and yet for once just now you wish you had. Just this once you wish you had, because who will hold her close? And who will help her with your chime? And who will help her hug your child? What will be left in the Holy Wind's last wake? Will it be her, more brilliant than ever? You can only pray, singing whispered words to the wind, a final song to her, to Zero, your partner dear.