:memory 01:
Quietly, Kurayami took a last look at the pages of her journal and the advice spooling out over them in lines of friendly ink. She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath and carefully closed the book, setting it aside.
The little takeaway box was sitting exactly where she'd found it upon waking, on the floor beside her futon. The flaps of glossy white paper had been unfolded, and the cake sat innocently inside, all fluffy white icing and angel-food layers. Perched on top of it, the glass thing glittered in its tiny, concentric hoops of metal.
No, not glass. Crystal.
She hadn't yet gotten dressed for the day, but something in her didn't want to wait. If something went wrong, the Wellspring people would just have to deal with the old, oversized shirt that Kagerou had altered for her to sleep in. Shifting around and crossing her bare legs under her, she peered warily into the box, and with finger and thumb, carefully plucked out the crystal and held it up. It sparkled even in the dimness of her windowless room, as if with an inner light.
A memory. Did she want another memory, if her dream in the cocoon had had any basis in reality? As it was, she could still hope that it was a metaphor or a mind trip, no matter how real it had felt. Setting the crystal on her bed, she propped her elbows on her knees and frowned at it.
"I don't trust you," she said, not sure if she was speaking to the crystal or the Sphere itself. Probably pointless, either way, but. "But...I can't not know."
Hesitantly, she reached out a hand, fingertips just shy of grazing the nearest gleaming facet. For a split second, she nearly lost her nerve, hand wavering--and then, with a hiss of released breath, Kurayami gritted her teeth and pressed her fingers to th--
¤
--e world was dark, and she had just enough time to think, not again, please--but it was more than dark, it was the absence of sight. Sightless and silent; she felt her chest rise and fall, the slow calm breathing of meditation or reverie, but heard not even the whisper of air in her own mouth.
I don't understand, she thought, the words flailing to the top of whatever she was experiencing only with effort, like bubbles through thick oil. And then the thick sensation pulled her down, and she was no longer thinking about it all because she was it all, moment by moment.
Her left hand throbbed with a small, sharp pain, bright like a ring around her thumb. She didn't mind it. It would heal, she knew, with time--and it had been worth it.
She'd been foolish. It was nothing more than she deserved.
Something fluttered softly against her outstretched right hand, and she took it in her fingers, gently, more gently than she would have thought herself capable of handling anything besides a paintbrush. Damp feathers, clotted together with something sticky. They twitched in her grasp.
A wing.
Her left hand dipped into cool water, brushed the side of something metal. A tub? A pot? There was a wooden handle, and her fingers closed around it. Her thumb stung--there was soap or lye of some sort in the water--but she ignored it, lifting out the dripping...
...brush, she realized, and spreading the bedraggled feathers to set the bristles to them with infinite delicacy. She brushed at the feathers, until the brush was--something skipped over, something she was judging by now-obscured sight, and--dipped it in the basin of water again, swishing it until the bristles were clean.
A film of something floated on the water. Not soap. It felt like oil, or grease in droplets clinging to one another.
She inhaled, and smelled the unmistakable tang of blood. Fresh blood, and the reek of sweat and illness, like a mist in the air.
--oh!--
But her remembered mind was calm, a deep heavy calm that pressed down her present confusion and savored faintly of wistfulness. Loneliness.
She was working from the roots of the wings, out. Now and then they twitched, jerking in her hands and scattering drips of warm water into her lap and across her face. Possibly blood, as well. She ignored it, working with a steady focus.
Reaching to start on the farther wing, her fingers skimmed over bare skin. Human skin, quite unmistakable. They lingered briefly and she could feel torn, swollen baby-softness. A child's back, bruised and warm to the touch with fever. Beaded with sweat. Heaving slightly with each ragged breath, an uneasy dreamer. So young...
She felt herself hesitate, fingers trembling, then quietly resume the routine, stroking the brush over soft wet feathers. It went on for what felt like hours, brushing, rinsing the brush and beginning again with each feathery twitch, like a slow-motion heartbeat.
At one point, though she heard nothing, the person under her hands moved slightly, and she felt her own lips form silent forgotten words. A smile tugged at her mouth, just the barest hint of one, before she ducked her head and continued.
The child's breathing evened, deepened and became the slow deep rise and fall of peaceful slumber. She sighed, resettled herself in her chair, and--
¤
--opened her eyes, breathing in shallow rapid mouthfuls. Gray light filtered in around her, creeping under the crack of the closed door. She was still sitting cross-legged on her futon, with the crystal lying in front of her.
It had fallen on its side, cradled in a hollow in the bedding, and the odd inner light had gone dark.
Kurayami swallowed hard, staring at it. In the first dazed moment as reality settled back into place around her, the overwhelming clamor in her freshly freed mind was focused on one thing. Wings. I wasn't the only one with little wings.
But close on its heels came the rest of the thought. Who was she...? Or...he?
And why...?
There were too many ways to finish the thought. Pressing the heels of her hands to her closed eyes, she let it stand.
¤ ¤ ¤
[Memory taken from Haibane Renmei, Episode 1. Kurayami's punishment is to hear this song for the next four days, off and on. The poor love.]
The little takeaway box was sitting exactly where she'd found it upon waking, on the floor beside her futon. The flaps of glossy white paper had been unfolded, and the cake sat innocently inside, all fluffy white icing and angel-food layers. Perched on top of it, the glass thing glittered in its tiny, concentric hoops of metal.
No, not glass. Crystal.
She hadn't yet gotten dressed for the day, but something in her didn't want to wait. If something went wrong, the Wellspring people would just have to deal with the old, oversized shirt that Kagerou had altered for her to sleep in. Shifting around and crossing her bare legs under her, she peered warily into the box, and with finger and thumb, carefully plucked out the crystal and held it up. It sparkled even in the dimness of her windowless room, as if with an inner light.
A memory. Did she want another memory, if her dream in the cocoon had had any basis in reality? As it was, she could still hope that it was a metaphor or a mind trip, no matter how real it had felt. Setting the crystal on her bed, she propped her elbows on her knees and frowned at it.
"I don't trust you," she said, not sure if she was speaking to the crystal or the Sphere itself. Probably pointless, either way, but. "But...I can't not know."
Hesitantly, she reached out a hand, fingertips just shy of grazing the nearest gleaming facet. For a split second, she nearly lost her nerve, hand wavering--and then, with a hiss of released breath, Kurayami gritted her teeth and pressed her fingers to th--
¤
--e world was dark, and she had just enough time to think, not again, please--but it was more than dark, it was the absence of sight. Sightless and silent; she felt her chest rise and fall, the slow calm breathing of meditation or reverie, but heard not even the whisper of air in her own mouth.
I don't understand, she thought, the words flailing to the top of whatever she was experiencing only with effort, like bubbles through thick oil. And then the thick sensation pulled her down, and she was no longer thinking about it all because she was it all, moment by moment.
Her left hand throbbed with a small, sharp pain, bright like a ring around her thumb. She didn't mind it. It would heal, she knew, with time--and it had been worth it.
She'd been foolish. It was nothing more than she deserved.
Something fluttered softly against her outstretched right hand, and she took it in her fingers, gently, more gently than she would have thought herself capable of handling anything besides a paintbrush. Damp feathers, clotted together with something sticky. They twitched in her grasp.
A wing.
Her left hand dipped into cool water, brushed the side of something metal. A tub? A pot? There was a wooden handle, and her fingers closed around it. Her thumb stung--there was soap or lye of some sort in the water--but she ignored it, lifting out the dripping...
...brush, she realized, and spreading the bedraggled feathers to set the bristles to them with infinite delicacy. She brushed at the feathers, until the brush was--something skipped over, something she was judging by now-obscured sight, and--dipped it in the basin of water again, swishing it until the bristles were clean.
A film of something floated on the water. Not soap. It felt like oil, or grease in droplets clinging to one another.
She inhaled, and smelled the unmistakable tang of blood. Fresh blood, and the reek of sweat and illness, like a mist in the air.
--oh!--
But her remembered mind was calm, a deep heavy calm that pressed down her present confusion and savored faintly of wistfulness. Loneliness.
She was working from the roots of the wings, out. Now and then they twitched, jerking in her hands and scattering drips of warm water into her lap and across her face. Possibly blood, as well. She ignored it, working with a steady focus.
Reaching to start on the farther wing, her fingers skimmed over bare skin. Human skin, quite unmistakable. They lingered briefly and she could feel torn, swollen baby-softness. A child's back, bruised and warm to the touch with fever. Beaded with sweat. Heaving slightly with each ragged breath, an uneasy dreamer. So young...
She felt herself hesitate, fingers trembling, then quietly resume the routine, stroking the brush over soft wet feathers. It went on for what felt like hours, brushing, rinsing the brush and beginning again with each feathery twitch, like a slow-motion heartbeat.
At one point, though she heard nothing, the person under her hands moved slightly, and she felt her own lips form silent forgotten words. A smile tugged at her mouth, just the barest hint of one, before she ducked her head and continued.
The child's breathing evened, deepened and became the slow deep rise and fall of peaceful slumber. She sighed, resettled herself in her chair, and--
¤
--opened her eyes, breathing in shallow rapid mouthfuls. Gray light filtered in around her, creeping under the crack of the closed door. She was still sitting cross-legged on her futon, with the crystal lying in front of her.
It had fallen on its side, cradled in a hollow in the bedding, and the odd inner light had gone dark.
Kurayami swallowed hard, staring at it. In the first dazed moment as reality settled back into place around her, the overwhelming clamor in her freshly freed mind was focused on one thing. Wings. I wasn't the only one with little wings.
But close on its heels came the rest of the thought. Who was she...? Or...he?
And why...?
There were too many ways to finish the thought. Pressing the heels of her hands to her closed eyes, she let it stand.
¤ ¤ ¤
[Memory taken from Haibane Renmei, Episode 1. Kurayami's punishment is to hear this song for the next four days, off and on. The poor love.]