Far from the clatter of hoof on stone, far from square walls and the smell of smoke and stagnant sweat, he closes his eyes. The silence of the desert settles across his back and for a moment he is free from obligation and company and the constant noise of society. Freedom. Crumpled thoughts slowly crawl out from the hidden corners and cobwebbed spaces of his mind. Out they creep, each and every thing that he ignores during the day because it is not practical. They dust themselves off, stand tall for a moment between his breath and the moon's glow, and then they take to the sky.
(Thoughts he doesn't have the words for, even if there was someone to share with. Thoughts that could more accurately be captured in sound or even in picture-- and maybe that is why the wide open sky calls to him, because it is the closest thing to a looking glass)
He lets his thoughts guide his legs and as time passes the sand turns to dirt turns to slush. And, finally, snow. Once he would have found comfort in the crunch of it underfoot, but now it just seems... cold. He feels unwelcome where he once felt at-- the sensation stops him in his tracks. The night is crisp and silent and completely indifferent to the old child and his questions, and his feelings, and his runaway thoughts.
And then-- the silence is broken. It is broken so sweetly you couldn't tell where the tear began. But we know, of course we know. The breaking starts before sound- he feels her song with his mind before he hears it with his ears. It is gentle at first, like the single chime of a bell rung far away. He doesn't understand what he's feeling, does not realize it is not his own sadness that rings but hers-- and it is only the tide drawing out before the tidal wave.
She is linked to him, and she reels him in whether she realizes it or not. He is already moving toward the stranger by the time her song reaches him across the silent chill of the night. When her voice finally hits Eik's ears, his heart clenches and he stumbles in the snow. Not just his thoughts run amuck tonight but his memories now too, memories scribbled into bone marrow and tucked between muscle fibers, broken to pieces and hidden away inside himself. They take flight, rising slowly at the same speed the snow falls.
How had he ever forgotten such loneliness?
"stop" he begs silently, crumbling gracelessly to his knees in the soft snow. "stop" is his song, the shattering of a bell made of crystal. He does not realize he is speaking aloud until the words claw their way from his throat and are swallowed by the still air. And once he realizes he is speaking out loud, he realizes that he is speaking in another way too. A silent sort of speaking-- but to who?
Even though her song might just shatter his heart, he staggers to his hooves and takes another step forward toward her. His eyes are closed in pain but he can feel her there, or rather he can feel that thing inside of her that calls to that thing inside of him. That crystalline sorrow, amplified by the indifference of the night. With an invisible hand he reaches toward that violet crystal and gently, gently, he brushes it with his touch. Their connection is broken instantly and it hurts, a little bit, like cutting off a small piece of yourself.
(-- The tip of a pinky finger, gone the second you actually realize it's there-- and you then start to think about every other piece of you that you've taken for granted, all the billions of cells you've shed without a second thought like some villain. Like some god. Like--)
In the resounding lonesomeness that follows, the back of his closed eyelids are deep, deep purple and he feels like a pot of black water brought to a simmer. If he were to open his eyes maybe he would see her there in the snow-covered plains before him, a specter in the moonlight. Instead he sighs as a bison might, a sigh with two thousand pounds of weight behind it. From the herd echoes a sigh in reply, a tired attempt at solidarity,
and then silence takes the stage with a long,
dramatic
bow.
(Thoughts he doesn't have the words for, even if there was someone to share with. Thoughts that could more accurately be captured in sound or even in picture-- and maybe that is why the wide open sky calls to him, because it is the closest thing to a looking glass)
He lets his thoughts guide his legs and as time passes the sand turns to dirt turns to slush. And, finally, snow. Once he would have found comfort in the crunch of it underfoot, but now it just seems... cold. He feels unwelcome where he once felt at-- the sensation stops him in his tracks. The night is crisp and silent and completely indifferent to the old child and his questions, and his feelings, and his runaway thoughts.
And then-- the silence is broken. It is broken so sweetly you couldn't tell where the tear began. But we know, of course we know. The breaking starts before sound- he feels her song with his mind before he hears it with his ears. It is gentle at first, like the single chime of a bell rung far away. He doesn't understand what he's feeling, does not realize it is not his own sadness that rings but hers-- and it is only the tide drawing out before the tidal wave.
She is linked to him, and she reels him in whether she realizes it or not. He is already moving toward the stranger by the time her song reaches him across the silent chill of the night. When her voice finally hits Eik's ears, his heart clenches and he stumbles in the snow. Not just his thoughts run amuck tonight but his memories now too, memories scribbled into bone marrow and tucked between muscle fibers, broken to pieces and hidden away inside himself. They take flight, rising slowly at the same speed the snow falls.
How had he ever forgotten such loneliness?
"stop" he begs silently, crumbling gracelessly to his knees in the soft snow. "stop" is his song, the shattering of a bell made of crystal. He does not realize he is speaking aloud until the words claw their way from his throat and are swallowed by the still air. And once he realizes he is speaking out loud, he realizes that he is speaking in another way too. A silent sort of speaking-- but to who?
Even though her song might just shatter his heart, he staggers to his hooves and takes another step forward toward her. His eyes are closed in pain but he can feel her there, or rather he can feel that thing inside of her that calls to that thing inside of him. That crystalline sorrow, amplified by the indifference of the night. With an invisible hand he reaches toward that violet crystal and gently, gently, he brushes it with his touch. Their connection is broken instantly and it hurts, a little bit, like cutting off a small piece of yourself.
(-- The tip of a pinky finger, gone the second you actually realize it's there-- and you then start to think about every other piece of you that you've taken for granted, all the billions of cells you've shed without a second thought like some villain. Like some god. Like--)
In the resounding lonesomeness that follows, the back of his closed eyelids are deep, deep purple and he feels like a pot of black water brought to a simmer. If he were to open his eyes maybe he would see her there in the snow-covered plains before him, a specter in the moonlight. Instead he sighs as a bison might, a sigh with two thousand pounds of weight behind it. From the herd echoes a sigh in reply, a tired attempt at solidarity,
and then silence takes the stage with a long,
dramatic
bow.
@Isra fun with telepathy! Feel free to "read" (or be bombarded with) any of his thoughts or feelings
Time makes fools of us all
