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Description
Amber sunlight was just beginning to creep past the tea shop's front window, staining the hardwood floor gold. Illuminating the whorls of dust that choked the still air. Chairs turned upside down atop tables, the door sign still stubbornly flipped to "closed", people who would usually stop and attempt to peer inside now merely glanced, and then continued along the footpath.

It had been a week since Francis O'Malley, owner and proprietor of the small space, had died.

Celain, sitting silent in a far corner of the building, back to the wall and knees hugged to his chest, stared unblinkingly off at nothing. And had been doing so for the last seven days. Parched, famished, and exhausted, for certain, but nothing could convince his mind to eat or drink or sleep like he ought to -- not when he was so...

...well, confused.

Francis dying had not been a surprise, mind you. Though the sweet gentleman had still sheltered Celain quite a bit from the outside world and all the facts therein, he never kept secrets. (Not that he actually could have kept secrets from a Yevat with the kind of untrained and natural telepathy that Celain possessed, but neither of them actually knew about that; Celain wouldn't learn until much later that reading people's minds was not actually normal for Earth creatures.)

More to the point, it just didn't make sense. Death, that is. Not in the way that Francis had tried describing it to him, in all the years leading up to the event. Something about it simply didn't register as real. Like some elaborate practical joke that humans hadn't recognized yet for the farce that it was.

Age was a badge of honor in Celain's mind. A purely delightful aspect that only grew more proud with the passing time. Because Celain did know that the universe was dangerous; the primal scratch of a Fight Flight Or Flee response. Protect yourself. Your body is irreplaceable, fragile, and coveted. Don't trim your thorns, dear rose -- getting plucked is a bad thing.

(Trim your claws and horns though, it's just as bad to break one when you need it most, or get grabbed and twisted about into the dirt like a performance bull.)

The very concept that a sentient, living thing, could just... get old, and stop living simply by dent of having been alive long enough to stop living...

Frankly it was rather horrifying.

Each day counted as a step towards an inevitable ending. That no wisdom or knowledge or practice could be implemented to stop it entirely. You couldn't open your front door, see doom, and close it away until it wandered off. It would sit there, forever, until the room around you rotted away, and the door became useless for fending off disaster.

How could you possibly function like that? How had Francis ever smiled, laughed, danced, and sang, knowing that no matter what, he'd eventually tip over the dark cliff edge? How had the human faced this... this viciously unfair thing, the fate of nonexistence, with a poise and calm that Celain could not even imagine having, if he'd been in the same shoes?

It had been a week since Francis O'Malley, guardian and friend to a pale and speckled little alien hatchling named Celain, had died --

-- and finally, for the first time in 77 years, that little alien felt mortal grief. And began to cry. Alone. Afraid.

Angry.

The rafters of the tea shop shuddered with the pressure and noise, creaking groans of solidarity for Celain's sorrow.

Description
Amber sunlight was just beginning to creep past the tea shop's front window, staining the hardwood floor gold. Illuminating the whorls of dust that choked the still air. Chairs turned upside down atop tables, the door sign still stubbornly flipped to "closed", people who would usually stop and attempt to peer inside now merely glanced, and then continued along the footpath.

It had been a week since Francis O'Malley, owner and proprietor of the small space, had died.

Celain, sitting silent in a far corner of the building, back to the wall and knees hugged to his chest, stared unblinkingly off at nothing. And had been doing so for the last seven days. Parched, famished, and exhausted, for certain, but nothing could convince his mind to eat or drink or sleep like he ought to -- not when he was so...

...well, confused.

Francis dying had not been a surprise, mind you. Though the sweet gentleman had still sheltered Celain quite a bit from the outside world and all the facts therein, he never kept secrets. (Not that he actually could have kept secrets from a Yevat with the kind of untrained and natural telepathy that Celain possessed, but neither of them actually knew about that; Celain wouldn't learn until much later that reading people's minds was not actually normal for Earth creatures.)

More to the point, it just didn't make sense. Death, that is. Not in the way that Francis had tried describing it to him, in all the years leading up to the event. Something about it simply didn't register as real. Like some elaborate practical joke that humans hadn't recognized yet for the farce that it was.

Age was a badge of honor in Celain's mind. A purely delightful aspect that only grew more proud with the passing time. Because Celain did know that the universe was dangerous; the primal scratch of a Fight Flight Or Flee response. Protect yourself. Your body is irreplaceable, fragile, and coveted. Don't trim your thorns, dear rose -- getting plucked is a bad thing.

(Trim your claws and horns though, it's just as bad to break one when you need it most, or get grabbed and twisted about into the dirt like a performance bull.)

The very concept that a sentient, living thing, could just... get old, and stop living simply by dent of having been alive long enough to stop living...

Frankly it was rather horrifying.

Each day counted as a step towards an inevitable ending. That no wisdom or knowledge or practice could be implemented to stop it entirely. You couldn't open your front door, see doom, and close it away until it wandered off. It would sit there, forever, until the room around you rotted away, and the door became useless for fending off disaster.

How could you possibly function like that? How had Francis ever smiled, laughed, danced, and sang, knowing that no matter what, he'd eventually tip over the dark cliff edge? How had the human faced this... this viciously unfair thing, the fate of nonexistence, with a poise and calm that Celain could not even imagine having, if he'd been in the same shoes?

It had been a week since Francis O'Malley, guardian and friend to a pale and speckled little alien hatchling named Celain, had died --

-- and finally, for the first time in 77 years, that little alien felt mortal grief. And began to cry. Alone. Afraid.

Angry.

The rafters of the tea shop shuddered with the pressure and noise, creaking groans of solidarity for Celain's sorrow.