daybreak (pailong&jun); vignette
For lacewood
Daybreak
It was the darkest time of night - that time of night, right before the day would break.
It was one of those nights where the air was so thick and heavy that you could take a knife and have difficulty slicing through it.
It was much too hot to sleep (not that he needed it) or move, so he just stood and watched her sit near the open window. She was very quiet and very still.
For a while, it had seemed as though they were of the same breed - both dead and sustained only by the powers bestowed upon Shamans.
It was some time after he regained consciousness that he realized - she was very, very alive and sustained only by her own will and not her Shaman gift, not her parents' wills.
He knew that she still wondered why he stayed (with her) after he was freed. There were times when he wished he could tell her, but words did not flow easily from the mouth of a dead man. Words did not even flow easily from her mouth, and she was very, very alive.
Perhaps, he thought, it was the words, the meaning, that would not flow.
It didn't make him or his feelings any less real though.
(Did he even have feelings?)
Sometimes, when he watched her struggle with some unbidden emotion - love perhaps, for her brother, sadness, for her fate, and most of all, hatred, for everyone, for everything - he would wish that he were alive again, so that he could relate and give the comfort that she needed.
And even as he thought this, he knew he never would and never could, because after having sustained herself all these years, she would continue doing so.
So he never saw her embrace or kiss her brother, he never saw her weep, and he never heard her rage against the injustices placed on her.
Still, he knew, with utmost certainty, that this was where he was supposed to be. This was where he wanted to be.
He stood behind her silently and placed a cold hand on her warm shoulder.
The sun rose in all its blazing glory.
Daybreak
It was the darkest time of night - that time of night, right before the day would break.
It was one of those nights where the air was so thick and heavy that you could take a knife and have difficulty slicing through it.
It was much too hot to sleep (not that he needed it) or move, so he just stood and watched her sit near the open window. She was very quiet and very still.
For a while, it had seemed as though they were of the same breed - both dead and sustained only by the powers bestowed upon Shamans.
It was some time after he regained consciousness that he realized - she was very, very alive and sustained only by her own will and not her Shaman gift, not her parents' wills.
He knew that she still wondered why he stayed (with her) after he was freed. There were times when he wished he could tell her, but words did not flow easily from the mouth of a dead man. Words did not even flow easily from her mouth, and she was very, very alive.
Perhaps, he thought, it was the words, the meaning, that would not flow.
It didn't make him or his feelings any less real though.
(Did he even have feelings?)
Sometimes, when he watched her struggle with some unbidden emotion - love perhaps, for her brother, sadness, for her fate, and most of all, hatred, for everyone, for everything - he would wish that he were alive again, so that he could relate and give the comfort that she needed.
And even as he thought this, he knew he never would and never could, because after having sustained herself all these years, she would continue doing so.
So he never saw her embrace or kiss her brother, he never saw her weep, and he never heard her rage against the injustices placed on her.
Still, he knew, with utmost certainty, that this was where he was supposed to be. This was where he wanted to be.
He stood behind her silently and placed a cold hand on her warm shoulder.
The sun rose in all its blazing glory.