S E I J I
He knows.
He knows what can happen, what has happened, to those who opened doors to this room before. The image of Celosia engulfed by shadow is stamped on the inside of his skull, a stain as dark and as permanent as that of her blood on the Rathskeller’s wooden floor. When the knocking begins, this is his first thought. Every muscle tenses in Seiji’s lithe frame. He braces, and turns away from the sound. Not again. How many days left in this hell?
But here is something else Seiji knows: “Kiada?”
Could she have gone? His dark eyes flick across the room, searching for her face. When did he see her last? He has been preoccupied, battling his own thoughts. Why would she have gone, though? To where? Slowly, he turns toward the door. Waiting for someone to speak. To move. But now his own feet are moving, carrying him nearer and nearer the noise. Half of him waits for a hand on his arm, for someone to stop him. It’s too dangerous. Of course it is. One life outside is not worth all the lives in here. No; pragmatism wins the day, doesn’t it?
But he knows her. And he knows she once offered him kindness.
Warily, Seiji approaches the door, his expression torn. “Kiada?” he calls more loudly, knowing every second weighs against her safety. Knowing the wrong choice could be the end of him, a light snuffed out in less time than it takes his heart to beat once. He wants… he wants someone to tell him what to do. Someone older, wiser. He pauses with one hand lifted, fingertips pressed against the wood, as if he can divine truth from the dead timbers.
More quietly, a breath. A whisper of sound. “How did she get outside?”
He knows.
He knows what can happen, what has happened, to those who opened doors to this room before. The image of Celosia engulfed by shadow is stamped on the inside of his skull, a stain as dark and as permanent as that of her blood on the Rathskeller’s wooden floor. When the knocking begins, this is his first thought. Every muscle tenses in Seiji’s lithe frame. He braces, and turns away from the sound. Not again. How many days left in this hell?
But here is something else Seiji knows: “Kiada?”
Could she have gone? His dark eyes flick across the room, searching for her face. When did he see her last? He has been preoccupied, battling his own thoughts. Why would she have gone, though? To where? Slowly, he turns toward the door. Waiting for someone to speak. To move. But now his own feet are moving, carrying him nearer and nearer the noise. Half of him waits for a hand on his arm, for someone to stop him. It’s too dangerous. Of course it is. One life outside is not worth all the lives in here. No; pragmatism wins the day, doesn’t it?
But he knows her. And he knows she once offered him kindness.
Warily, Seiji approaches the door, his expression torn. “Kiada?” he calls more loudly, knowing every second weighs against her safety. Knowing the wrong choice could be the end of him, a light snuffed out in less time than it takes his heart to beat once. He wants… he wants someone to tell him what to do. Someone older, wiser. He pauses with one hand lifted, fingertips pressed against the wood, as if he can divine truth from the dead timbers.
More quietly, a breath. A whisper of sound. “How did she get outside?”
The rain is full
of ghosts tonight
of ghosts tonight
