Hitched breaths caught between steps with twitching muscles and uncertain, aborted movements; a rush of blood through the body, aching limbs like unfurling wings for the first time in five centuries; a loud, booming voice resonating inside, like God reaching out through the radio silence, through the static; organs tugging violently, first to the left, then to the right, and a heart thudding behind ribs so hard they might crack.
And strings. So many invisible strings, pulling, pulling.
A group of crows take off in a fluttering fury, black against the overcast grey sky, and the breeze carries with it the scent of an impending storm. Dalyell pauses in the middle of crossing the street, and it’s like a dramatic scene from one of those cheesy films they’re always watching when they turn their head towards him, lead by a hand they can’t see, and words they can’t truly hear. They’ve only been in town for a couple weeks. They’ve barely settled into their new job — same as all their old jobs, just without so many eyes on them, watching them, learning about them — and their new apartment, and this is one of the first times they’ve gone out, too.
For the past two decades, their mundane existence has had to be enough. They gave up, is the thing. Gave up on ever finding him — The Prophet — and gave up on a cause that was probably lost almost half a millennium ago. It’s been too long. The cycle could’ve been broken. He could’ve stopped it, if he wanted to, as some sort of backwards, sick punishment for His rebellious soldier. Chose a new soul to burden, and to disguise that burden as favor.
Only there he is. And here they are. And oh. They can feel it. They can feel it like a physical caress over their skin, like the phantom feathers they still feel brushing against their own limbs have once again become as real as their corporeal vessel.
When they make eye contact, they breathe in, a sharp inhale, and the street light just behind them flickers on in time to project their dark form on the pavement in a pool of luminescence. There’s still an hour or two left of daylight. It shouldn’t be coming to life yet. They know that, somewhere in the midst of the chaos in their head. They can see the shadow of their wings in their peripheral. That’s all they are anymore.
Life becomes a futile ghost once you're stuck in a routine. You fade to the back as peers say their goodbyes for the day, shooting you a simple farewell glance, the glossy gaze enough to cut your flesh like butter, or make you crawl from your skin all together. Ronan mumbles a small Yeah, later. That seemed like a perpetual goodbye of sorts but not enough to make things stick, which was just right for him. The walk to his bike is short and not so sweet, as was everything else in his bursts of constant normal life. The sky dims and so does a dignity that Ronan greatly lacks. Large, rough hands grip the handles and he makes his way forward. Today felt like the sky could open up any minute and suck Ronan up there with it. He'd live among the things he believed and find comfort in being in a world where he was the odd one out with other odd one outs. A human among us foreign things, how delightful ! Is what he'd assume they'd greet him with. Not his somber Yeah, later or a not that I ever cared to know you farewell until tomorrow glance.
Ronan isn't sure what comes over him today. Maybe it was the half eaten sandwich someone left in his classroom or the way Mrs. Samuels, some dainty fingered teacher who worked upstairs from him, asked him what he was doing tomorrow night, but he takes the long way back home. His body lulls like a curtain with the window open, dancing about a bedroom with no real purpose other than to keep the sun out. His expression bland, as is everything else, his work clothes itchy and so hideously mundane. His obsession is an itch to his system, he'll break out in hives long enough to aid his misfortune of losing everything he's known due to the whispered beings that become alive inside his mind. The rest of him was a quiet, endless normal, while his mind exploded of endless mysterious purpose and begging to be knowns. What a life you live, Ronan, what a life.
He casts a tired look over to his side, fixating on a pile of rocks settled on the side of the curb. The desire to kick them arises, to toss them and throw them into windows, hearing the glass shatter and fall to the ground with a loud clank. But, no, he stands there, hands gripping his bike as the sky dims and dims, glass windows remaining all in one piece and his body just the same.
Finally he lifts his gaze and the world suddenly freezes over, but Ronan feels like he might be on fire. The shadow is large and alive, just as the heart that lives inside Ronan and the blood that courses through him. Is it you ? Is what he wants to ask. Are you here with me now ? The words are there inside him somewhere, along with his stupid human heart and boring crimson blood. Do you bleed like me ? Do you feel like me ? They must.
The bike leaves his grip and Ronan's itch flares up. He takes large steps to approach them, feeling as though his lungs might collapse inside him. His hands that just hours ago were sorting through papers and desktop files, opening up his boring lunch, and shaking the ink inside his pen, now reach up to cup their face. It's the sensation of finding something you thought you lost years prior, but found that it was just nuzzled under your bed under a pile of clothing you don't wear anymore.
❛ So are you to my thoughts as food to life ? ❜
