such expensive mistakes

A moment — a moment where she does not recognize him. Muscle stands out in his haunches as he sits back, back, away from the sudden glow of flame. But it's mesmerizing, too: the flock of birds ascending from her spine, miniature feathers drawn in light. They don't reach the sky. Recognition blooms in her eyes and the birds disappear, and Seiji is left staring at their after-images, black and white outlines of imaginary things. He's still. Full suddenly of a heavy sensation, knowledge and dread. He was drawn here. It's written everywhere, in everything he touches. Everything he sees. This place calls to him, or laughs at him, or both. His ears akimbo, he blinks at Kiada. Kiada — a name. A person. Not just a dream or an obstacle or a metaphor. The moment is past. She won't attack him. But he thinks, still, of the shapes arcing in flight from her back. He wishes he could ask her what it means. Instead, he returns her smile, his own narrow features soft. There is so much inside of him he cannot share; there are so many things he can no longer do. He feels suddenly as if he might die of it, all his bones pulled inward out of frustration. Emotion is a hole in his heart, and he hates it. But the hatred doesn't seep out. It isn't her fault. He moves in beside her the moment she makes room. Dripping, sleek, he looks like a creature made of ink. Like something from a dream. Seiji resists the urge to shake, though it's everywhere in his skin. He stands there quietly dripping instead, every angle of his dark self crammed under the overhang. Thank goodness he's small. His gaze moves briefly to the bag, curious, but she's asked him a question first. He shakes his head. No. The Rift, as she calls it, has been astonishingly kind to him thus far. He's seen a great many things, met some strange people, but he is unharmed. Maybe more than he can say even after his days on the road. For a moment he's still again, his expression falling just slightly. Difficult now, in proximity to someone he almost knows. Difficult with questions milling on the back of his tongue. With so many things, even just pleasantries, unspoken for so long. He wishes he could even say hello, tell her his name.... How many nights have passed since he last heard his name? It's a dismal thought. He tells himself he will correct it soon, but alone with only Kiada and the eagle and the rain, he feels as though victory laughs at him from a thousand miles away. His affect has stilled; there is no longer the performative gentleness about him. Only a kind of drawing in, a chill. Water runs in a steady pattern off the bottom of his ribcage as he turns his head to lip gently at her bag. Then he raises it again, his ears pricking, though slowly, and blinks at her. What has she gathered? He doesn't know much of her, beyond her name and her magic and the public personality she wears. He had imagined her some kind of soldier, maybe a guard, but perhaps she's a healer instead?

img by Tildae @ flickr