No Music

The forest dreams: shadows shot through with bolts of color, mist clinging to the bark and creeping low to the ground. Eyes like stars in the dark. When he is able to master the frantic pace of his heart, he knows: this place is unlike all others. Once he stood upon the sands of home and gazed out at the horizon, imagining a pit of endless darkness. Now…. It’s warmer than expected. He dares not hope too desperately, but he wonders if at last his journey draws near its end. Perhaps somewhere, in the shadows of roots, or up high in the branches…. His eyes like inkwells, bright and full of possibility. But he needs not wonder long; a whisper of wings (so familiar, so strange) and a dawning brilliance flares to life. Something - someone - visible now between the trees. Mist parts around her as if the forest spits her out: a girl. She smells of the wood, all mud and feverish light. But his eyes, his eyes are drawn one spot: feathers. She wears them like pieces of a crown. A detail stolen from a fairy tale. Maybe something keen shoots through him next. It goes too quickly to be sure; he would say you imagine it, the look in his eye, the sudden tension. Like a hunting hawk. At last, he thinks, but his eyes are soft again, a little wary. He turns as if shy, presenting the point of his unfinished shoulder. Bright, her voice. Keen, the steady lock of her gaze. If he were someone else, telling this story from outside, he might remark upon the way they mirror, as if they are both predators. As if each sees the other as prey. But he’s here, living it; he steps back half a pace, his head up at the end of his long swan’s neck, and her reflection is something pale and intrusive in the darkness of his eyes. His eyes: on the weapon now. Calculating. Watchful. He never for a moment trusts the ring of her voice, but he refuses to bolt. Maybe she knows the next road he must take. So with effort - wait. Is she - ? His ears flick back and in that time her keen gaze has darted under his ribcage and come up again. Is that how this is going to go? The fear bleeds out of him. She looks young, doesn’t she? Younger even than he, and gazing up at him with strange, fierce hunger. Yet the fear is gone; he regards her with something far more gentle, some baffled amusement, as if this isn’t the first time someone has violated his privacy and he isn’t angry, no. He’s a little disappointed. Halfway around the world, into this nightmare place, and still, the people in it are… He shakes his head, something like laughter softening his eyes. His lips part, but he can’t say, “My name is Seiji. It’s nice to meet you.” Or even, “My eyes are up here,” though he is far too polite. He cannot ask the girl her name, or where her parents are, or if there is a word for what she is, with living wings whispering beside her ears (and does her soul sing like a bird's?). He can only pantomime the disability, and hope she doesn’t get any more brash. In an attempt to change the subject, he gestures at the trees. Maybe she can tell him where he is.

img by Tildae @ flickr