What is a ghost?
Seiji still dreams of the dark: torch light on stone walls, shadows receding, the damp echoes of his footsteps. Sometimes, the dreams come laced with terror. Sometimes, with longing. As if the darkness is a measure half-played. A stanza half-written. A song half-sung.
A spell cast halfway.
He has been in this place, the Hollowed Grounds, long enough to know even wistful dreams are dangerous. The faces he can match names to dwindle. He learns new names. They dwindle, too. Seiji remembers a time he thought he could learn this place, befriend it. He is wiser now though and lonelier, as well. He walks the streets at dawn in silence, no companions this time. Kiada has her own business these days. Amalia, too. And the other Loreseekers. Seiji would be welcome if he found again their hall, he knows. But he wants to be alone this morning.
In one hand, he carries a torch - unlit. In his other, a basket with a cloth cover. Seiji picks his way through rubble with calm focus. He pauses only briefly at the entrance to the underground, where he sets the basket at his feet and lights the torch. Then, he continues on.
He does not intend to go very far. A little past the shrine, he thinks. Fear tickles the back of his mind, but he keeps his eyes ahead, watching the flicker of flame on the walls. Counting his steps, measuring each one, until he loses count and starts over again. Eventually, he finds a place where the path splits, and there he pauses, his dark eyes peering into the equal darkness of the forked paths.
“Hello,” Seiji says, calmly. He steps forward and carefully places the basket beside the wall, a little nearer the left-hand path. “I am leaving some food here,” he says. Calm, amiable. As if speaking to a frightened child. He tries not to conjure, too hard, the image of the creature he speaks to. He tries not to think about where it might be, whether or not it even lives. The Prince’s particular darkness has occupied his thoughts too often lately, and maybe the offering is like those made at shrines. Only, this one Seiji makes to himself. To kindness. To something like hope.
He glances back over his shoulder only once as he turns and moves away, back up toward the light - he thinks. He does not remember the underground as well as he could.
A spell cast halfway.
He has been in this place, the Hollowed Grounds, long enough to know even wistful dreams are dangerous. The faces he can match names to dwindle. He learns new names. They dwindle, too. Seiji remembers a time he thought he could learn this place, befriend it. He is wiser now though and lonelier, as well. He walks the streets at dawn in silence, no companions this time. Kiada has her own business these days. Amalia, too. And the other Loreseekers. Seiji would be welcome if he found again their hall, he knows. But he wants to be alone this morning.
In one hand, he carries a torch - unlit. In his other, a basket with a cloth cover. Seiji picks his way through rubble with calm focus. He pauses only briefly at the entrance to the underground, where he sets the basket at his feet and lights the torch. Then, he continues on.
He does not intend to go very far. A little past the shrine, he thinks. Fear tickles the back of his mind, but he keeps his eyes ahead, watching the flicker of flame on the walls. Counting his steps, measuring each one, until he loses count and starts over again. Eventually, he finds a place where the path splits, and there he pauses, his dark eyes peering into the equal darkness of the forked paths.
“Hello,” Seiji says, calmly. He steps forward and carefully places the basket beside the wall, a little nearer the left-hand path. “I am leaving some food here,” he says. Calm, amiable. As if speaking to a frightened child. He tries not to conjure, too hard, the image of the creature he speaks to. He tries not to think about where it might be, whether or not it even lives. The Prince’s particular darkness has occupied his thoughts too often lately, and maybe the offering is like those made at shrines. Only, this one Seiji makes to himself. To kindness. To something like hope.
He glances back over his shoulder only once as he turns and moves away, back up toward the light - he thinks. He does not remember the underground as well as he could.
Something dead that seems to be alive.
Something dead that doesn't know it's dead.
