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:: It's been a long day and you're already late for dinner :: :: as you pass by the Chronicles of the Winds on your way :: :: home. Distracted by thoughts of hot soup and dumplings, :: :: you walk face first into one parchment that is hanging :: :: precariously off to the side of the board. Muttering :: :: something under your breath about lazy inconsiderate :: :: people making messes for other people to deal with, you :: :: shove it out of your face. But a curious turn of phrase :: :: catches your eye, and you lean in for a closer look... I didn't hear the door open, but I never do with Kes. She has a way of just being suddenly 'present'. If you're not used to her, it's enough to make your doubt your situational awareness. Hell, who am I kidding. It's enough to make me doubt mine, and she's been doing this to me going on 8 years now. "You're supposed to lock your door." She drifts to the window instead of a chair, carrying her usual unsettled air. I don't think I've ever seen her just sit down and take a load off. She's got that look she gets when her dreams or visions or whatever have been especially unkind. A sort of pale on top of pale, except for the dark circles under her eyes. "Yeah? You're supposed to knock." I say, not looking up from the blade I'm oiling. "I Saw something. It's about your mark." "Which one." "You know which one." I set the whetstone down. "Go on." "He doesn't die the way you think he does." Her fingers find the edge of the windowsill and press there white-knuckled like she's holding on for life. "There's another party, an older interest. If you go in the way you're planning, you'll be walking into someone else's trap." "That's specific, for you." I've gotten over worrying over her always knowing my secrets, but it still itches. She's good for them though, and the only way to avoid it would be to kill her - which is off the table. "The Seeing was *loud*." She says it like an accusation against her gift. "I hate when it's loud." I study her for a moment - the particular tightness in her, the way she holds herself apart from the room like she's afraid if she gets comfortable she'll never be able to leave. "You could sit." "I could." She doesn't. I decide to change the subject. "You should get to know some others with the Talent." I go back to the blade. "Might be good for you, having someone to talk to who doesn't need everything explained to them." Something crosses her face too fast to name - there and gone, like a fish darting under the ice. "I talk to you." "I don't have that gift. I don't count." "You count fine." "You know they can't make you join anything." "I know." A short, humorless laugh. "Someone tried to give me a word for it, you know. The way I am. 'Henophobia', he called it. It's just some fancy made up word for a fear of being absorbed." She laughs again, and this time it comes out half-crazed. "I pictured - henophobia, hen-o-phobia! I pictured myself running from a field of hens. Great flapping wall of hens, chasing me down a hill. I couldn't stop laughing. He thought I was being hysterical about my own affliction, but really I was thinking about chickens. Truth is, he didn't get it. It feels like... " She trails off for a minute before continuing, "like that bigger 'thing', that 'otherness' is going to consume my soul, and I'll be this dead Once-Was THING just wandering around as a part of some other big whole, with my sense of self just gone. And the worst part is, I won't be able to tell. I won't know, because the part of me that would notice is the part that would be dead." "Sounds accurate either way." "It's not funny." "It's a little funny." . . . | |