Seiji
Seiji remembers.
Not — this. Not everything. But he remembers. The creaking voices of the gulls, the sigh of the waves, the rocky shore smooth underfoot. Even the place where the rocks gave way to black sand. He remembers that and then nothing else, nothing save hoarse laughter in his throat and someone else’s bare feet beside his own. Running — running around the elbow of some distant island as if something wondrous waited just around the corner. The memory flooded in suddenly some time ago, triggered by the smell of salt or the texture of the sand, and now he wanders along the coast savoring it. Probably something here is dangerous, and probably something here will try to kill him, but he does not feel mortal in this moment. He feels like — danger no longer matters to him.
He feels happy.
And if plants can live on sunlight, and little fish can live on seawater alone, something in Seiji lives on happiness. He keeps thinking of that place, the place in memory, the sand and rocks and the breathless running, the bite of sea air in his lungs. He keeps breathing in, and in and in, in great breaths, as if he can capture the whole coast this way and hold it inside himself. Nothing in Caido is perfect, but this — well, this is close.
His dark eyes reflect a thousand points of light as they dance on the crests of waves. Seiji carries his shoes in one hand, and the hem of his shirt flutters in the wind. He would be cold if he were not preoccupied, but his coat he carries slung over his shoulder, the long fingers of his left hand hooked through the collar. And he is smiling. And he is watching the waves. His feet carry him along, down the length of bone-white sand like the disintegrating spine of some old long-dead fish. In his head, Seiji is composing music. The muscles in his wrist make miniscule movements, hidden by the things he carries, but his fingers are very lightly tapping out a song far different from the one of sorrow he conjures up when he’s alone. This one is — lively. A song for flower buds and birds, though Leafchange now clutches Caido all around him.
Seiji does not think of this when first he sees the figure out in front of him. Not until he draws near, and nearer still, and some distant spark of recognition fires in his brain. The wild hair, the broad shoulders, even the stony brow above those distant eyes — Seiji has seen this man before. He cannot call him friend, cannot even say he knows Deimos, but he recognizes him. They have both been in the Hollow Ground some time, and well, the general is difficult to miss. From some distance still, Seiji waves, and his head tilts as his eyes move from the man to the man’s outstretched hand to the curl of water resisting all the impulses of its peers.
Magic.
“You are doing that?” Seiji asks when he is close enough, his eyes wide. “You can move the water?”
Not — this. Not everything. But he remembers. The creaking voices of the gulls, the sigh of the waves, the rocky shore smooth underfoot. Even the place where the rocks gave way to black sand. He remembers that and then nothing else, nothing save hoarse laughter in his throat and someone else’s bare feet beside his own. Running — running around the elbow of some distant island as if something wondrous waited just around the corner. The memory flooded in suddenly some time ago, triggered by the smell of salt or the texture of the sand, and now he wanders along the coast savoring it. Probably something here is dangerous, and probably something here will try to kill him, but he does not feel mortal in this moment. He feels like — danger no longer matters to him.
He feels happy.
And if plants can live on sunlight, and little fish can live on seawater alone, something in Seiji lives on happiness. He keeps thinking of that place, the place in memory, the sand and rocks and the breathless running, the bite of sea air in his lungs. He keeps breathing in, and in and in, in great breaths, as if he can capture the whole coast this way and hold it inside himself. Nothing in Caido is perfect, but this — well, this is close.
His dark eyes reflect a thousand points of light as they dance on the crests of waves. Seiji carries his shoes in one hand, and the hem of his shirt flutters in the wind. He would be cold if he were not preoccupied, but his coat he carries slung over his shoulder, the long fingers of his left hand hooked through the collar. And he is smiling. And he is watching the waves. His feet carry him along, down the length of bone-white sand like the disintegrating spine of some old long-dead fish. In his head, Seiji is composing music. The muscles in his wrist make miniscule movements, hidden by the things he carries, but his fingers are very lightly tapping out a song far different from the one of sorrow he conjures up when he’s alone. This one is — lively. A song for flower buds and birds, though Leafchange now clutches Caido all around him.
Seiji does not think of this when first he sees the figure out in front of him. Not until he draws near, and nearer still, and some distant spark of recognition fires in his brain. The wild hair, the broad shoulders, even the stony brow above those distant eyes — Seiji has seen this man before. He cannot call him friend, cannot even say he knows Deimos, but he recognizes him. They have both been in the Hollow Ground some time, and well, the general is difficult to miss. From some distance still, Seiji waves, and his head tilts as his eyes move from the man to the man’s outstretched hand to the curl of water resisting all the impulses of its peers.
Magic.
“You are doing that?” Seiji asks when he is close enough, his eyes wide. “You can move the water?”
