You are the night-time fear
He is still unsure of what is going on. Memory and sleep are fickle things; you close your eyes and embrace oblivion, and no matter how many hours (days, weeks, months, years) pass the next thing you know is merely opening them again. The space in between holds nothing, or fleeting dreams, yet he is left with the distinct notion that much time has passed. For one, his body, while technically fine, feels disused, somehow, like a tool put away greasy and forgotten until it has rusted.And for another, he doesn't recognize anyone.
There's no sign of war.
He has not said much about it, or himself, or anything—he stood like a wary father watching his flock spill into a world that embraced them, watched them be snatched up by the living in warm embraces. Disbelief turned to shock and love. They scattered among the lanterns and their loved ones, and Aamu remained adrift in the sea of strangers. For a moment he had thought—
Oheň—
Yet every memory has been displaced within his mind. Even now, he cannot remember how it came to be that this woman is leading him out of Halo, but he is glad to be going. Though his face is impassive his mind is in turmoil. He wants escape; she offers it.
His hands are thrust into tattered pockets, the wind picking at his long hair. He thinks about re-braiding it, but something holds him back—like there is something he needs to remember, and acknowledge, first. So he lets it be, lets it flit about his face, and hums in slight agreement at her declaration.
He twists as they walk from the tower's moon-shadow, peering up at its distant peak.
He has no recollection of it.
Disturbed, he hurries to catch up with Isla, breathing little white puffs. "I do not know yet," he merely responds, a strange (and slightly archaic) lilt to his voice. It seems too mellow for his hard eyes.
He still barely remembers who he is. How could he possibly know what he plans on doing? But he supposes it's as good a place as any.
"You are welcome," he hums, glancing up at her. She had been dead; he knows this much. So: "What is death like?" he asks, unashamed.
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
