"And Who Said Demons Were Heartless?" is an EU flashforward thread that takes place upon Stonegit's death.

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The Weaver: As a matter of principle, Shaxurohm generally didn’t get attached to humans. He didn’t care what they did, he just recorded it in his tapestries. Weddings, births … deaths. He so rarely cared that when he did, it was strange, and it descended upon him quickly and painfully.

His thoughts were disconnected, and fuzzy. Although he knew the details, he couldn’t summon them to the front of his mind. All he could really think of was that one of the very few mortals he’d ever cared for, Stonegit, was dead.

Shaxurohm had been working on the tapestry in a haze. Suddenly he snapped back into focus, and he observed the half-finished work. Really observed it. And he was angry. He got to his feet and kicked his loom, clawing at the tapestry. He was snarling, wordless, pushed into a blind rage as he destroyed both the tapestry and the loom.

He didn’t even realize what he was doing until his loom and the tapestry were destroyed. Shaxurohm sank to the ground, pressing his hands to his head. He tried to say something, anything, but all words died in his throat.

The Warden: She hadn’t spoken to anyone, or anything, in a long while. When she came across Shaxurohm’s grieving mind, she was both faintly irritated and a little bit grateful.

But the emotions were numbed. Completely and utterly numbed. Just like they had been for the past few years.

The Warden approached him slowly, carefully, eyes flicking to the bits and pieces of destroyed cloth and wood. She glanced down at a scrap by her feet and her emotions swelled as she saw that a face remained intact. She picked it up slowly and cradled the remains of one of the people she had truly begun to love as her kin.

So you’ve heard.

The Weaver: Yes. I have.

Shaxurohm looked up at the Warden, his face almost completely blank except for his eyes. They were quite expressive, and the one thing they were expressing was pain. He got to his feet, looking at the face in the intact scrap.

I could make a tapestry of . . him. For you. A portrait, if you will.

The Warden: There was silence for a while, and then the Warden wordlessly handed the scrap back, letting her hands rest in the Weaver’s for a moment. I’d…like that…

Her hands shook and then her legs folded beneath her and she sank to her knees, pressing her forehead against his hands, hardly able to summon the energy to even shed tears.

The Weaver: I . . think he made it to Valhalla. If that … helps?

For the first time in a long while, Shaxurohm felt completely and utterly useless. He almost always knew what to do, even if that was as simple as talking about his tapestries. But he didn’t want anything to do with those at the moment, for what had to be the first time in … well, over 2,000 years. He glanced at the remains of his loom and the tapestry, before looking back at his cousin.

His vision blurred slightly, and he was confused momentarily before he remembered - tears.

The Warden: Yes, it does.

She remained in her hunched position, shutting her eyes tightly, locking her jaw. I told you caring for humans would all come to naught, she said bitterly. We got to know him and now look where we are.

The Weaver: We should have known, really . . Shaxurohm laughed, although it was clearly devoid of any humor. He was a mortal, after all. And that’s what mortals do, they … die. He laughed again, but the sound transformed into a broken sob.

The Warden: She abruptly stood and paced agitatedly back and forth, pushing her head into her hands, still with her eyes shut. What’s the point? What’s the point to all of this, what’s the purpose!? Why do we raise humans just to watch them die later!?

The Weaver: Shaxurohm looked up at his cousin, although he only saw a blurry form. Tears had begun to flow freely now, and the rage he’d been feeling before was gone, replaced with pain and sadness. He leaned forward, another sob coming from him as he hunched over to the point where his head rested on his knees.

He had never thought the death of a mortal could mean so much, could be so painful. And for the most part, it wouldn’t be. It was just this particular human, the first one he’d had true kind interactions with, that caused him such grief.

The Warden: The Warden turned slowly, reaching out a hand and then pulling it back. Shaxurohm…

She lowered herself next to him, pressing close to his side. A faint memory trailed back to her from many years ago, when her substance was fading, the man that was with her in the depths of Purgatory…his friendly hand reaching out to comfort her…

Carefully, she lifted a hand and stroked the back of his head, keeping her touch light, but still wanting to reassure him somehow.

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