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They are not supposed to die.
Flaming Katy’s embers flicker, flicker, flicker, cease. They don’t tell Sun Daddy at first, but Sun Daddy can feel it when it happens, like the galactic spiral of the planet composing her is spinning to a stop and remaining stationary, broken. She was closer to Katy than anyone else; they spent nights at each other’s stations, burned for one another, found a warrior’s purpose in the merging of their minds. She won’t stop mourning for a very long time.
None of them will, of course, but it’s personal this time. Too much has been taken from Sun Daddy. Too much has been taken from all of them.
Katy died a hero, and that makes too much sense. She’s always been so good at protecting them, her light shimmering in the darkness of the Underground, illuminating what could never before be seen. She served her purpose and she brandished the sword and she wound bravery around the body. She didn’t deserve to die.
Sun Daddy’s inner form can no longer ignite. She’s just a sad orange thing now, flattened into grayscale.
