Perhaps it is death that cloaks his mind from the damage that he has done in past lifetimes. Perhaps it is merely a survival instinct that protects him from experiencing the full depth of wounds that he has inflicted. It leaves much of his former life behind a veil—trapped beneath the fog of remembering. He can only remember the softened angles of it and not the sharp edges. He remembers enough though.
Enough that her heavy voice, the haunted depths of her eyes, spear right through him. He flinches a little, his handsome, weathered face bearing the brunt of her distance. He recoils a little, but doesn’t physically step away from her. He can hardly blame her for not greeting him with warmth.
He’s not sure that he would if he were in her position.
“Ah,” he starts, his voice nearly hoarse. He stops and clears his throat, shakes his head a little as though to clear his thoughts and then pauses, staring at the ground for a moment. He takes another shaky breath and then flicks his gaze upward, the simple brown of his eyes finding her own. “I am okay.” It feels like a dull response, hollow, and his mouth tilts into a self-deprecating smile. “I have not yet found my feet again.”
He frowns.
“It is strange to find yourself alive and still have to convince yourself of it every morning.”
The words taste bitter though, and he feels an immediate wave of guilt for feeling anything but appreciative for his second chance of life. Guilt that pours through him once more as he looks at her and realizes how much his introspection had kept him from the more important subject at hand: her.
“And you, Anonya? How are you?”
PLUME
but my heart, it don’t beat, it don’t beat the way it used to