No Promises

Wings: like the beating of a distant drum. Closer. Closer. He stills: a shadow wavering upon the shore. No, he thinks. Dark eyes swing inland. Trace the path of the phantom noise. Close. Close, now. Seiji's ears sweep back, but the expression is a private one. He isn't sure who follows, but he doesn't want them here. He left — and now to have that ignored — A tremor. Something sudden, like the wake of a massive beast cutting through dark water, passes over the blue-black sheen of his coat. It happens, and then it's gone. Then he is still, still, still, the agony seeping back into him. His eyes quiet windows on a darkened room. It's Roscorro. Sweat still rimes the hollows of Seiji's flanks. Maybe his breath comes a little quick, but he is still. Presentable. Still, in the way Seiji is still: a question mark. A mystery. Energy gathered in the heart of him and not overflowing. If he was wild before, he is presentable now. He makes himself presentable in the handful of moments between the noise of the wings and the appearance of that great brown shape over the pools. Roscorro. Seiji studies him as he approaches. Big; monstrous was the word, wasn't it? The first word Seiji thought? But he thinks now the exterior may be at odds with the heart beneath. This fails to cheer him. His ears want to turn back. His body wants to run. He blinks at the sea, the sea, the sea. "Friend." The word calls his attention back. And Seiji is meeting the other man's eyes, now. Meeting his eyes with a careful, studied expression. Trying to give nothing away; maybe failing. Maybe his distress is obvious no matter how he tries to hide it. Maybe he is obvious, an outside thing which does not belong and does now wish to bend itself into a shape which does accommodate these ..... others. No; he wants to be gone. He is not a friend. But Roscorro is speaking. Roscorro is.... telling a story, maybe, but it sounds true. Seiji watches with ears up, still pensive. But maybe a little looser. Maybe: softening around the sharpest edges. They hoped the land would kill me, Seiji thinks. An echo: again and again. He imagines his sister's laughter. His mother's tired eyes. He cannot fathom what it is to be bereft of love; even if they are absent now they are alive, even were alive, and they loved him. And he loves them. He sees tears brightening Roscorro's kind eyes and (again, again, again) he wonders if he's done wrong. Miscalculated, surely. Softening still, he steps forward and extends the velvet end of his nose. To gently touch Roscorro's shoulder, if the man should allow it. I'm sorry, he thinks, though it wouldn't be enough even if he could speak. I'm sorry for so much. For what is and what may be. It is a cruel thing, Seiji's quest. He steps politely back. Listens to the rest of what Roscorro has followed him to say. And they are kind words; they are kind words Seiji yet fails to deserve. But his heart makes an awkward, sideways movement and it hurts, a little bit. To know he's somehow won affection even here. He smiles, though it's strained, and nods. What else can he do? He hasn't the words to argue; he hasn't the heart. He understands the gesture even if he thinks, he may not deserve it in the future. Roscorro may not be willing to pay what must be paid, when it comes down to it. But Roscorro is very kind. In the end, Seiji only nods, as he always does. He nods, and steps back. I understand, he's trying to communicate. But also: Still I need to go. Perhaps because Roscorro is kind. Perhaps because these creatures would give him a home here, if he asked. But he mustn't. He gives the other man a last lingering look, a look full of too many things to name, and continues to drift away. Hoping: this time no one will follow. Hoping: Roscorro will not try to stop him.

img by Tildae @ flickr

@Roscorro