The first of the blog-style posts, the combination of three earlier tumblr posts. Under the cut. Once there are more, they will get directional links.
start – note 2
I really shouldn’t be doing this to Master Beika, with her being nice and all that. Especially when she’s still worrying about Master Lan. But I can’t help it, it seems. This, being tired, useless, helpless. Just being on her couch, wanting to be asleep and staying that way.
What else is there to do, and to be? I do not belong here, in her country where my people are the servants or the imprisoned. If it were not for Marceau, I would be the latter. Or maybe I am, just in better quarters.
I cannot go out, not really. People stare. Or they frown at my accent. Beika walks with me like I am her equal, but everyone else…they stare. I am a stranger, with nowhere to go. I cannot go home. I cannot stay here.
I would rather fade away.
The thoughts kept circling in my mind that way, without end. Sleeping or waking, they remained, in thoughts and nightmares. I did not know whether I wanted to be dreaming or to be awake to think. I just felt tired, too tired to get up, to move, to eat.
Until she came.
I don’t know how Marceau does what she does. Her hand felt cool over the forehead, as she opened my mind.
Her fingers brushed through the timelines as if she weaved them through my hair, with gentle caresses. She untangled the knots and straightened the strands. She found the deepest parts, checked if they were locked tightly and well. She found the new memories, and the knotted circling thoughts. She smoothened them as well.
My mind relaxed, my body eased. I do not know how she does it. But I am thankful. She may seem rough, but her ways are gentle and caring, more than she will ever care to admit.
I wanted to touch those fingers that coursed through my timelines. I wanted to hold them, to feel the toughness in those smooth well-worked fingers. I wanted to kiss them. To tell her my thanks. But I was still bound by her touch through my mind.
She finished through everything she had to do, sorted the timelines and tucked them away neatly. With a slight touch, she closed my mind. With her fingers at my forehead, she told me to sleep.
As curtains slowly descended through my thoughts, my mind rested at last, and all went silent.
I saw her face looking down at me. Her lips curved down in a deep frown. Her eyebrows met in furrows above her nose. Her dark curls streamed in two waterfalls by her face.
She was beautiful.
My hands wanted to reach out, to hold that face, to keep it in one place, to smooth away the wrinkles. To bring that face closer, toward lips that wanted to kiss hers. But my arms would not move, neither did any other part. I had no choice but to look, nothing more.
With the strings now untangled, the timelines all straightened, I saw her clearly past the lines. Fatigue. Concern. Fear. Anxiety.
What have I done.
I forgot, I think, for a moment, a long moment. Fading away would mean not seeing her every day, being focused on her work, being flustered by attention to her skill, being annoyed when she is called kind. Not seeing her face.
I do not want that. I do not know why, or how. But it is so.
I opened my eyes. It was morning.
She was gone. She had been gone for hours, and yet I still feel her fingers through my mind, her face over my eyes. I blink, and blink again, not sure if I was dreaming yet, or awake but remembering. I keep my eyes open, and wonder why for once I do not want to go back to sleep.
It was not her; it was my friend. But that too was a welcome voice. I turned my head and gave Master Beika a weak smile, to show that I heard.
I nod as I take a deep breath.
“Will you be all right?”
After what Marceau did, I just might.
start – note 2