More dreams. Fragments of a larger whole: the sound of surf, the singing of gulls — their voices like the rusty hinges of old doors. He awoke some time earlier with the smell of salt in his lungs, the ghost of a melody in his head. The time pattern was familiar. Seiji spent most of the morning trying to catch it once more until he realized he'd been keeping time to the same beat on that night in the woods. The night he first arrived.
He doesn't know what any of it means, but he knows it is important. More and more, he finds himself escaping even the sleepy bustle of the settlement to seek out wild places, quiet places, places where he might find whatever he so desperately needs. Today, he has done the same. A handful of small apples in his pocket, the last traces of the phantom music in his head, he set out just after his realization. Sometime shortly after, he found a small grove of trees.
These are somehow different from the dense, clutching boughs of the wood. The air between them smells sweeter despite the bitter cold. The light — even of a pale winter sun — shines brighter between the leafless branches. Seiji walked among them for a time, humming softly to himself, feet crunching in the snow, before yet more snow began to fall: a peppering of flakes in his dark hair, across his shoulders. Sitting on the ground held no appeal, especially not with the flakes threatening to cover him.
So, now Seiji finds himself up in the branches. No difficult feat — just some quick use of his long, nimble limbs. He sits with his back against the smooth bark of a twisting trunk, his legs draped across a sturdy branch, and watches the snow fall. All the while, he hums to himself, working through the bit of melody he can recall, building on it, changing his mind. He does this for a long time, his fingertips and his toes going numb with cold, his outward senses oblivious to the world. At some point, his humming changes to whistling, though the difference isn’t quite conscious. He isn’t conscious, either, of the two luxere who have appeared under his tree, digging in the snow for grass and lifting their head to prick their ears, alternatively.
He doesn't know what any of it means, but he knows it is important. More and more, he finds himself escaping even the sleepy bustle of the settlement to seek out wild places, quiet places, places where he might find whatever he so desperately needs. Today, he has done the same. A handful of small apples in his pocket, the last traces of the phantom music in his head, he set out just after his realization. Sometime shortly after, he found a small grove of trees.
These are somehow different from the dense, clutching boughs of the wood. The air between them smells sweeter despite the bitter cold. The light — even of a pale winter sun — shines brighter between the leafless branches. Seiji walked among them for a time, humming softly to himself, feet crunching in the snow, before yet more snow began to fall: a peppering of flakes in his dark hair, across his shoulders. Sitting on the ground held no appeal, especially not with the flakes threatening to cover him.
So, now Seiji finds himself up in the branches. No difficult feat — just some quick use of his long, nimble limbs. He sits with his back against the smooth bark of a twisting trunk, his legs draped across a sturdy branch, and watches the snow fall. All the while, he hums to himself, working through the bit of melody he can recall, building on it, changing his mind. He does this for a long time, his fingertips and his toes going numb with cold, his outward senses oblivious to the world. At some point, his humming changes to whistling, though the difference isn’t quite conscious. He isn’t conscious, either, of the two luxere who have appeared under his tree, digging in the snow for grass and lifting their head to prick their ears, alternatively.
