[open] walking heavy to the beat of a broken drum; any

[clementia]

be still, my foolish heart
don't ruin this for me

Creature.

There is so much that she does not know. She is so terribly young. Naive in the way that she sinks closer still. As if she had not heard it. As if there is nothing here to fear.

And there is fear, certainly.
But it feels such a distant flame that she can ignore it.
It is not bravery but the kind of invincibility reserved for the young, the unflappable belief that they are untouchable. It could shattered her, certainly, this dark thing, but she is not bright enough to understand this.

Creature.

She has only a basic understanding of the word. But she smiles at it, despite the way everything in her trembles beneath the smooth, unblemished surface of all that glass. She smiles at it and looks at it the same way she looks at the sunrise. With reverence. What a spectacular thing.

“Is that your name?” she asks it sweetly, inching her way toward it. Slow, as if with some inherent understanding of the danger it presents. “Creature?” Still, she smiles. As if Creature is a perfectly acceptable name. As if there is no reason to wonder what kind of thing might have named him. “My name is Clementia.”

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