What is a ghost?
Seiji only nods in response to her thanks, glad to see her respond at all. He smiles, though, surprise and delight shining through the expression in equal measure, as Auni sprawls out beside him. A clear picture of happy acceptance. Seiji strokes the young luxere’s side, his fingers pressing into the soft, thick fur. There must be a story behind him, a story about where Kiada went in the depths of Longnight, but Seiji is content to wait for it. For all of it.
“Auni,” he repeats, his voice soft, smile lingering in the sound. He would rebuke her about needing an explanation, but he doesn’t wish to disagree here in the moment, to throw her off balance with his own feelings. So Seiji merely waits, patient and reserved, sipping at his tea. He is surprised when she reaches across to hand him something.
Carefully, he takes the note. The paper is creased, slightly warm, a little dirty. Seiji unfolds it with slow movements until he can read the scrawled note. His dark eyes move slowly, soaking in the words. The depth of emotion emanating from them, the regret, the concern. An entire story told in this little scrap of paper. Seiji lets his hands fall, then, as she speaks. Ru’in. She had spoken that word before. He had not taken it for a name. It makes sense, now.
From where she was born.
Seiji passes the note back. “I am sorry,” he says. He is thinking of the others lost, their cries swallowed by the night. He is thinking about the cruelty of stories without ends — just lost threads trailing through filthy snow. “Where you were from…” Seiji tries, his voice still steady and low, “did you have rituals? For the dead?” It is the first thing he can think of to do, the first help he can offer. Were he outside the moment, he might find significance in that. But he is in it now, and rites simply feel as natural as breathing. He will help her to complete them, if he can.
“Auni,” he repeats, his voice soft, smile lingering in the sound. He would rebuke her about needing an explanation, but he doesn’t wish to disagree here in the moment, to throw her off balance with his own feelings. So Seiji merely waits, patient and reserved, sipping at his tea. He is surprised when she reaches across to hand him something.
Carefully, he takes the note. The paper is creased, slightly warm, a little dirty. Seiji unfolds it with slow movements until he can read the scrawled note. His dark eyes move slowly, soaking in the words. The depth of emotion emanating from them, the regret, the concern. An entire story told in this little scrap of paper. Seiji lets his hands fall, then, as she speaks. Ru’in. She had spoken that word before. He had not taken it for a name. It makes sense, now.
From where she was born.
Seiji passes the note back. “I am sorry,” he says. He is thinking of the others lost, their cries swallowed by the night. He is thinking about the cruelty of stories without ends — just lost threads trailing through filthy snow. “Where you were from…” Seiji tries, his voice still steady and low, “did you have rituals? For the dead?” It is the first thing he can think of to do, the first help he can offer. Were he outside the moment, he might find significance in that. But he is in it now, and rites simply feel as natural as breathing. He will help her to complete them, if he can.
Something dead that seems to be alive.
Something dead that doesn't know it's dead.
