such expensive mistakes

Obediently, Seiji is not surprised when the flames erupt once more along her spine. His head lifts slightly as he watches them: beasts playing in the glow. Not birds, this time, but things which resemble birds. What does it mean? Does she control it? The thought is maddening, a sliver of a thing digging down deeper and deeper into his brain. Like everything else in this place — teasing. He never knows what is on purpose — what isn't. He is trying, trying his best to learn and to find, but it feels at times a fruitless task. It reminds him of his earliest days on the master's island, when he was too young to speak the master's words. A child, helpless. So he is still, still, still with the orange glow of her magic washing over him. A respectful distance away, so much as that can be achieved within the confines of their shelter. The warmth laps at the side nearest her and slowly the water fades. Better. His head bobs. He needs to think up new gestures, but that one is easiest. He is always saying yes, thank you. Always at the mercy of this... place. His eyes drift back to the rain outside, the cold drum, drum, drum, and he can almost believe they're the only things alive in the whole world. His attention shifts back to Kiada when she moves to take something from her bag. Green and round, like something pulled out of a lake — but dry. Moss? Algae? Seiji's long face tilts to afford a better look. He knows very little about plants — a practitioner of blood and bone — but he wonders if the herbalists of his homeland would even find an advantage here. Delicately, he stretches his neck out near enough to sniff the plant. Near enough to lip at the plant. Near enough, actually, to nibble at the plant, to take it from her and examine it himself, unless she pulls away. He isn't a thief, but there's an odd whim, a sort of impulse, to taste it. To learn what it does. So he is maybe not as sober as he ought to be when she explains about her family, though his head jerks up at the mention of her father, warrior (he knew). Her mother thief (a surprise). Her own desire to differentiate herself from the two of them. He nods. This is understandable. And then he pauses, thinking — the polite thing to do is share something of his own. But he isn't sure how, in the cramped space. His head lifts up; his ears tilt askance, and he's thinking. His own parents: shadows on a distant shore, hoof beats ringing up and down the rocks. His sister's voice, sweet with song. How old would she be, now? He remembers some of the words to her songs, but not the sound. Not really. He turns again to blink at Kiada, a little apologetic. He cannot tell her these things. He shuffles around, instead, to turn in her direction the shoulder stippled with white. The outline of a bird's wing etched indelibly into his skin. A memory: lying in the grass, his chin on the rocks of the low wall. One of the helpers on his back. The prickling of a sharp implement digging again and again into his flesh. Pick, pick, pick. Sleepy with the pain but content to wait, blood tickling through the sleek hairs on his shoulder. Seiji reaches around to motion at the scarring, now, perfect in its form. He gestures then past the overhang, to the outside world, to the sky. He trots forward to the very edge, rain pattering the end of his nose. He left his parents, too, long ago (it seems forever). He left them behind on the beach, the same way he left — But that's different.

img by Tildae @ flickr