You are the night-time fear
He knows four things about her: her face, her spirit, that she is Ascended, and that she has died.Somehow, he thinks he won't ever forget the ones he ushered back into life. He barely looked at them that night, yet he remembers their faces all too clearly, and in some dim, made-up way, he remembers the feel of their souls from that not-place. It is vaguely disturbing, and he decides it is nothing but his imagination, a lingering malady of his time spent powered down. Souls and soul-knowing are not his domain.
He finds himself watching her instead of watching the small tree. She's oddly similar to the sapling; limber, willowy, sprung barefoot from the snow. It curls his pale lips into a slight and wicked smile. It feels fitting.
She demands; he provides.
"A tree," comes his oddly lilting voice, the smile staying small but crooked, mischief in his hard blue eyes. He does not know what more it is. Perhaps he once did; perhaps he didn't. He knows it is much he used to know, but his mind is full of missing connections and jumbled timelines. He has resolved to give himself time. What will come back, will come back.
What won't, will remain lost. He does not like it, but he accepts it.
"Perhaps it bites," he says, amused, with a hint of sharpened teeth.
Or perhaps she does. He can't wait to find out.
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
