aspen
At times, it felt like the silvered, sprawling, closely bundled and sloped rooftops were made for her. Effortless in bounds and leaps, silent in stops and starts, she could sometimes get away with calling her motions fluid. Liquid shadow. Hah. How pretentious. He would love it, really. Lotus-hilted daggers, bursts of moths and bird-like masks --
Birds. Avian imagery kept following her every damned where.
She wasn’t opposed to it. It reminded her of pleasant things now, too. Confusing, but reciprocated feelings. Blades sunk deep into rib cages, blood licked clean from deactivated void blades.
No, not now. No getting lost in fantasy.
She stepped off the lip of a curved rooftop to leap with the softest pad of leather soles against the surface of another, leaving behind a trail of shadowy vines, small, shadowy ‘sunflowers’ blooming in deep purples. It was altogether likely that they weren’t actually there at all. Her lips quirked at the loud clank of a hook and the rattle of pulling chain as someone launched themselves to the neighboring rooftop. How did anyone sleep in this place? Did anyone sleep in this place?
“You constantly surprise me. Lack of outward indication hardly means anything.”
No, it meant a great deal. Everything the insufferable old elf never indicated meant a great deal. She wasn’t sure if she wanted it to, but it did. Everything underneath the sun’s blessed light and shadow had always mattered so much, and he was the third in a quartet of those who’d mattered most. Something bit at her. Shattered glass and moss-covered statues with stony, passive faces no matter how hard she screamed or sang at--
Stop it.
Swallowed back magic left sweet tastes in her mouth, like syrupy medicine meant for children. She could feel the irritation ticking like a cat’s tail tip, twitching back and forth. Like a metronome, like a grandfather clock--
No, stop it.
Another leap, and then two more, to a terrace, to some open balcony, to a second-story window and a peek inside for just a moment. Some nameless nightborn paced back and forth as restlessly as a cat sitting at the doorway, indecisive about whether or not it wants in or out. With a quick pull, the rogue weightlessly shifted up and to the higher, sloped rooftop. There was something so intensely satisfying about looking down over everything.
Over everyone.
No, no actual chip on her shoulder. She’d never really had one, never really needed anyone’s approval, exactly. Praise, yes ( and oh how she’d come to find that one out ). A need to be better than everyone at everything, maybe. A need to move forward, but everyone had that. A need for --
Closure? Something they all denied you. Something none of them had time for, but all the time in the world for others.
One did. She couldn’t do him the disservice of dismissing how often he was willing to listen, to offer quiet and considerate opinion and all else, always considerate. The cat turned away, ears and tail flicking, golden eyes sullenly bored. Lightly little sunmote. But while he was nestled in a fond and hopeful little corner --
One-fourth of the past. You can’t help being hopeful, just don’t be indecisive. You care about respect. He’ll respect a decision you stand by. Kick him, or don’t kick him. But don’t fret over which is the right thing to do, because neither are wrong.









