we hope your rules and wisdom choke you

[obscuronoctis]

For all the reflection and mental anguish, there is little thought to score his pace now. He's been in The Voltaic before, though just the lobby. It's massive, and deceptively winding like casino-resorts are wont to be - beautiful, but he only spent a handful of minutes seated in the lobby's upscale lounge. He should have stayed put

Comments

[alwaysturning]

He may be waiting for a while

[obscuronoctis]

Of course Ducard knows someone is waiting for him - but does he know who?

It doesn't matter. Not yet - not quite. He's got another second before he does realize, if he hasn't already - then what? What words or more weighted things than that will they exchange? He should feel some kind of anticipation, anxiety - instead there is a void, something that eats all light and emotion, just where he's carved it.

He says nothing, elbows on knees, hands clasped, looking up at him in the cracked-dark with just his eyes.

[alwaysturning]

Another second, yes, while his eyes adjust. Perhaps several, until the shape on the bed becomes more than just a shape. He may not have realized it; he may be waiting for a sign. Or he knows, he knew immediately, and he wasn't prepared for it. No matter the reason, that is quite the expression he's wearing-however vague it may be, now that his face is all planes and hollows in the darkness. Presently, his hand lifts to the wall, his fingers find the switch, and there is light again. Just one, behind him, by the door. That soft, benign, comfortable hotel yellow.

A long, long pause stretches between them, impossibly heavy.

Finally, he settles on the easiest and, conveniently, most accurate word:

"Interesting."

[obscuronoctis]

Is Ducard just as he remembers him, at first a tower, then something electrified; burned from the inside out, carrying a charred heart? Or is he different - has too much time passed for even his memory (clouded, compromised) to have kept the detail? Bruce is different - another man carved out from what walked down off that mountain. He could be a year older or twenty - the lines beneath his eyes haven't caught up to the extra fathoms inside of them.

The silence is meditation, purgatory.

Finally he moves: barely, raising his head to match his gaze.

Interesting indeed.