8.24.2004
Just a doodle-scribble-doo.
Music for the story: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon - Farewell by Yoyo Ma
--
Tumultous rain would not stop falling. A healing salve on the desolate mixture of sand, dirt and forest. A green levity accentuating nature, life. Each breath taken was something that could not be returned.
He knew precisely the time in which she had awoken. He did not immediately turn to her, away from the window to her small innocent face which stood the test of immorality. She looked no older than a young woman - a girl child, yet her eyes told a different story. A marred soul was what she carried, for that he was too sure of. No girl child carried a blade so heavy as hers. A man's sword.
Girl child made not a sound. He felt her eyes staring, studying, brooding and hard on the back of his head. She must be wondering where her blade is. He had discovered her in one of the pit traps he himself set for any intruders two moons before and now he had brought her in his home. Slowly he pivoted on his heels like his father always used to do, and did not meet her eyes as he made his way nearer to her. From the corner of his eye he could see her body tense, as taut as a drawn bow string. One wrong move and she would have his head. Gently he pressed both fingers of his hands and lifted the bamboo-green teacup from the rickety table nearby, made his way closer before he set himself on his knees.
It was then that he met her eyes as he offered the steaming drink and he carefully studied every plane and line and curve of her face, her clenched knuckles white against the brown winter blanket. Black hair in disarray, deepest of brown eyes searching, looking for anything hidden, a conceiled blade. He did not need one for he no longer took to fighting . . . for there was nothing left to fight for. Her delicate eyebrows slackened from their frown only slightly, her cracked lips parted. The movement was so quick it almost startled him as her hands came to intercept his; suddenly the cup was gone and it was now in her hands, and she drank hungrily as though she had been deprived a fortnight. She did not take her eyes away from him, nor did he make any effort to move away but only to offer more tea from the kettle he had on the floor. She made him fill it three . . . four times before she had her fill, still her eyes full of awareness. Something in those eyes made him yearn for something foreign.
Immorality. That's what it was. Her almond-shaped eyes kept watching him as she slowly drank the lukewarm liquid with one hand. He barely flinched when he felt her fingers brush against his. He looked to her for guidance, something, something.
"Wo bu deng, wo bu zai deng," she whispered.
I am waiting, but then again I'm not.
--
;it's something sophiscated.
3:32 PM
