E I K
he remembers what god whispered into his ribs--
There is an undercurrent that flows from mind to mind. It flows through every living thing, man to bird to tree, weaving a network of thoughts. The funny thing is, each thinks itself an island.
they have no idea.
It would be easier for the grey man, to be an island. He would know so much less of love and kindness and beauty, but he also would not know what their loss feels like-- what it
looks like, that dark paper-thin shape of something so dear and so
gone.
(Isra is gone)
But no one is an island, especially not Eik.
He is at the dreaming tree, hoping to smell clover and lavender and the crushed-snow smell of the woman he fell helplessly in love with. But the air is too thick with the tired smell of bonfires that have burnt themselves out. Even the mud that they had sunk into, (the humblest of beds for the tenderest of loves) even the mud just smells like ash.
(The world is falling apart.)
The glass leaves ring against each other sadly. Sad sounds often made him feel better. Nothing sadistic about it, just... a comfort in knowing that even the trees are sad sometimes, too. A hint at the warm undercurrent that swells beneath all living things. Today the sound of glass on glass just makes him more restless. It sounds like the way his chest feels, like an empty thing dissatisfied with the mere
memory of fullness.
(Isra is gone, the world is falling apart, and there's nothing he can do.)
A dragon arrives, and Eik is ready for a fight. He stands before the stained glass with a wide stance. Unarmed but dangerous, entire body tense and ready to charge should the beast threaten to even touch the tree. (himself he is not worried about. It is nonsensical; grief and rage will do that) But the beast does not touch the tree.
He has talked to crows before, and briefly to a very sassy seagull, but a dragon's mind is a different thing altogether. Dragons are an ancient race, one of the oldest if the books are to be believed, and when Eik reaches into the dragon's mind he does not discern words as he had with his avian friends. What he does get is an eruption of worry to rival his own, and the image of a mountain.
Isra.
His heart beats-- when had it forgotten to?-- and he blinks, and he does not understand what is happening but he opens himself to the dragon. His rage and his grief and his love, it all burns white-hot like the creation of a star. "
Please," he begs, even knowing it is not necessary to beg, for he is powerless to do anything else. His is a want so immense it cannot be further humbled. "
Show me the way."
------
@Isra
I love Fable. Have I told you I love him? Because I love him, a lot.
(also, no pressure to reply unless you feel so inclined!)
