form_mage: (reach)
[personal profile] form_mage
I'm...wanting to play Suiko4. I hate your face, Brya.

She leans away from him for the first time, and draws her own breath from the curve of his cheek. Now he is old, and nothing will take the lines from his face, the silver from his hair; he would not want these things taken. She knows him as well as she knows herself--better. His eyes are her own, are his mother's, are gray as the clouds gathering around the mountains.

"Now," he says, voice weathered and old, "it's all up to you. You're..."

He stops, but she knows he would have said "your own." Would have, if it didn't hurt to say those words again. She pulls away from him for the first time, leaves the circle of his arms. The shadows of the world are darker than she remembers, when she looked through his eyes.

"Indret." He calls her name for the last time, and she looks at him.

"Brya," she says. "Yes?"

"You're beautiful, you know."

For the first time, she stands on her own legs, and is pleased to find them strong. "You made me this way."

He frowns and she wishes she hadn't said it. As he stands--shakier than she had, but he waves off her hands and steadies himself--his mail of towers catches the light of the moons. So, so many towers; can she name them all, now? She stares. Ruka. Maei. Veylital. Koloka. And--

"He isn't--"

"I know." He smiles, straightens the chains that he wears as though they are the Violen's jewelry. "I'm going to find him.

"I know--I know he's somewhere. Somewhere here.

"Now...turn around, Indret--you have to go the other way. You have to teach the ones who are left."

She knows. It is what he made her for. It's the reason that she knows all that he knows, that she feels all he feels, that she is all that he has discarded. Still, she wants to make her own choice--to turn her own body around and move her own feet around the rust-colored rocks, back towards the sights and sounds of civilization. He respects choice. Now, at least.

But he also respects time, and will not wait for her. She feels him walking away, and can only watch the dark fall of his hair, his unsteady footsteps, the swoop of his fur-lined cloak.

A madman, they call him.

And what was she? Product of a madman's mind.

She turns and falls to the ground.

They--color whispers wings--are all following.

Tokal's claws rake invisibly her hair. She sees rather than feels Ruka's wings brush past her cheek. And the lot of them--buoyed up by some wonderful thought, or by the faraway vapors of the Soreth Sea--spiral past her and up the mountainside, to the man bowed down by a thousand white towers.

She is spun by them. Only watching. Passenger, like she has been for years. She names them:

Tokal. Ruka. Veylital, arms outstretched; Maei, chained and screaming; the Ectreon and Meltis racing each other over the ground; and, wings wide and beating--


She wants to cry out. She reaches for him. He passes through, all light and air, everything but solid. And he flies through the first drops of rain, until he reaches Brya's shoulders.

She wants to cry out and can't, because she knows what else Brya gave her. It was written in his eyes: she can teach because she can see, and he no longer can. Years, he has spent, with the spectres of his guardians and spirits dogging his footsteps--and years more he will spend looking for the one that presses against his back.

But this, she thinks, is probably exactly what Aivlen wanted--no obligation, nothing but...eternity? Not being taken for granted. Not being hurt.

Maybe that was his meaning of freedom.

Date: 2005-02-04 09:26 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]

I have really been drabbling incoherently far too much lately. @_@

Date: 2005-02-04 11:08 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
s'all good, I like reading them~


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