[ She has imagined the touch of another human for so long that now the reality feels alien, a gesture so intimate that it borders on grotesque. Still she follows him, not out of trust but resignation.
Above, the branches sway and curl as many disembodied hands reaching for the sun. The leaves scatter the light just so that rainbows form all around them. She knows this tree. Oak. Of all the things her father reveres in this world, this old giant would be chief among them. It is as sacred to him as his pride. In Senua's world, the tree quivers under her palm, its bark stretching and shrinking with every breath she takes. It stings as salt on wound. Voices whisper in strange languages. ]
I shouldn't touch it. I'm hurting it.
[ That wasn't the question. She turns to him, worry etched on her face, unsure how much she could say. ]
It's— afraid. Do you hear it? It didn't want to be found.
[ Daniel nods. There is no refusal, no rebuttal, no medicine to give. There is only the shift of his own palm, taking up space no longer over hers but next to, where the gnarled bark of the tree presses roughly into his skin.
There is silence. Daniel feeds a small spark of green from the well of himself into the tree, and he closes his eyes.
He listens. ]
It wasn't sure who you'd be.
[ Opening them. If there is a frown on his face it fades quickly, muting into something different, a grace under thoughtfulness. ]
But now you've told him his name. He sees you clearly. [ A hum. ] Think you might've been outside his reach, before, wherever you were.
[ Senua removes her hand from the tree as soon as it's freed. The sting is imagined but it is as real to her as the ground beneath her feet. She listens, too, and watches how the green from his palm flows to color in the branches and the leaves until the entire tree seems to rouse itself out of a deep slumber. It has no eyes, but she knows it's watching them now along with the rest of the forest.
( What does it mean? What is his name? ) The voices repeat the question in many variations, baying for answers. She isn't listening to them. ]
Sometimes the darkness takes me, and the world turns strange.
[ Like crossing into another place that looks the same but feels different, an imposter world, like here. Her stare at —through— him would be accusing if it wasn't so absent. ]
[ And despite her gaze, that bone-bred terror that may come in the knowing, Daniel smiles again. He turns himself so his shoulder rests against the oak more than his palm does. Bark catches at the small loops of his knitted sweater. As if a brother's greeting, as if physical, as if a stay, for I cannot follow. ]
[ What was it her mother once said? ( You can steel your heart against any horror, any suffering, but a single act of kindness from a stranger will unstitch you. ) Senua realizes only after the fact that the voices have left her save one, the oldest one, the one that keeps her safe. She can't meet his eyes when her own fill with tears. ]
I must.
[ It is so quiet now that she can hear the sound of him breathing, the rasp of his clothes against the tree. ]
[ How lonely, he thinks. How lonely it must be, to be Senua.
Daniel goes nowhere alone. Where the trees are, where the growth is, where moss blankets and grass shoots through the stones, there are other voices. Daniel tries to imagine a life where that does not exist for him, where his life is false and quiet and his awareness stops at the limitations of his skin. It's a hopeless endeavor.
That plant at their feet wakes up again. Stretches, coils, slithers slowly and gently and perhaps still afraid as it winds around Senua's ankle.
What is it, that Daniel seeks? ]
It gets harder, [ he says. Confesses. ] To remember what it's like to be human.
[ What is it like, to doubt? To be unsure of your place? To think about things beyond soil and sun? ]
[ For Senua, loneliness comes not from solitude but from other people. There is no greater isolation than the one that comes from knowing the reality she inhabits will forever be alien to those she loves. That she will never be known or understood. Even as she watches the green tendril coil about her ankle, she can't quite be sure that Daniel sees the same. She can't even be sure if he's real. ]
Is that so terrible? [ Mouthed rather than spoken. How many times has she wished to be more rock than human, more thin air and silent grass?
But she knows nothing of him, his wants, the world he holds in his mind. She wants, even a little bit, to add to something good. ]
[ There is a bloom that exists out in the wilds. Some flowers open only in the sun; others at night, and others still only once a year. They require the same things all animals do. Time, care, patience. And so Senua reminds him of this bloom. It is a shame, Daniel thinks, that the comparison comes so readily. He's never been able to find the same patch of green. He's never been able to revisit that uniquely singular form of life.
Can I help? she asks him, and Daniel's expression softens. He wonders what she will return to. ]
You're already helping, Senua. [ The corners of his eyes crinkle. ] You're talking to me, aren't you?
[ The tendril coils, reaches up, up, up. It hovers in the space between Daniel and Senua, and then simply— buds a flower. Each petal unravels slowly, almost shyly, in offering. Daniel makes a quiet, approving noise. ]
[ She can't see further than this, here, enough warmth to help her through the hours after his eventual departure. A year is too distant. Tomorrow, at least, she can promise to come back here to reminisce. Such little things matter in her poverty of being. And right now her smile is loose, teeth showing, the corners of her lips never quite reaching their full potential. ]
They should talk to you. Everyone.
[ She speaks as if it's inconceivable that he doesn't have an entire village fawning over him.
( He reminds her of someone. I won't say his name. I don't want to ruin this moment for her. ) There's just the one voice, the kind one. Her hand hovers near the bloom as if afraid that it might fall, before turning her palm toward him as an invitation. Reciprocity. Her eyes are blue and wide and steady when they finally meet his. ]
[ The flower opens, and then falls. Daniel catches it in his palm and murmurs a steady Thank you, and the tendril retreats backward, leaving only the bloom in its wake. Sleep will take this plant, soon. But it will be a deep one, invigorating, the kind that comes when you have done good work.
This flower, Daniel gently places behind Senua's ear. His hand comes to rest in her open palm. ]
[ In everything she sees metaphors made literal. A single bloom at the cost of a life, or so she understands it. To have the flower rest amid the tangle of her hair is to be the bloom or the vine that once held it. So what does it mean? Later, she tells herself, now she needs to think and do and not linger.
Senua holds his hand lightly, ready to let go should he hesitate. She does it with such ceremony, this giving of a gift that she fetches slowly from the worn pouch at her hip, before placing the small object against his palm, covered by both her hands. She dithers first, unsure if she is willing to part with something so important and also wary of his disapproval for a thing so worthless. ]
This will show you the way. It will speak to you.
[ Then, finally, she removes her hand to let him see: an angular twig with its surface worn smooth from too much handling. It is what it is: a small dead branch. There is no magic in it save what her mind imbues it. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Above, the branches sway and curl as many disembodied hands reaching for the sun. The leaves scatter the light just so that rainbows form all around them. She knows this tree. Oak. Of all the things her father reveres in this world, this old giant would be chief among them. It is as sacred to him as his pride. In Senua's world, the tree quivers under her palm, its bark stretching and shrinking with every breath she takes. It stings as salt on wound. Voices whisper in strange languages. ]
I shouldn't touch it. I'm hurting it.
[ That wasn't the question. She turns to him, worry etched on her face, unsure how much she could say. ]
It's— afraid. Do you hear it? It didn't want to be found.
no subject
There is silence. Daniel feeds a small spark of green from the well of himself into the tree, and he closes his eyes.
He listens. ]
It wasn't sure who you'd be.
[ Opening them. If there is a frown on his face it fades quickly, muting into something different, a grace under thoughtfulness. ]
But now you've told him his name. He sees you clearly. [ A hum. ] Think you might've been outside his reach, before, wherever you were.
no subject
( What does it mean? What is his name? ) The voices repeat the question in many variations, baying for answers. She isn't listening to them. ]
Sometimes the darkness takes me, and the world turns strange.
[ Like crossing into another place that looks the same but feels different, an imposter world, like here. Her stare at —through— him would be accusing if it wasn't so absent. ]
You know.
no subject
I do.
[ And despite her gaze, that bone-bred terror that may come in the knowing, Daniel smiles again. He turns himself so his shoulder rests against the oak more than his palm does. Bark catches at the small loops of his knitted sweater. As if a brother's greeting, as if physical, as if a stay, for I cannot follow. ]
Is it frightening?
[ A bare question. Quieter, ]
Do you travel it alone?
no subject
I must.
[ It is so quiet now that she can hear the sound of him breathing, the rasp of his clothes against the tree. ]
What is it do you seek, Daniel?
no subject
Daniel goes nowhere alone. Where the trees are, where the growth is, where moss blankets and grass shoots through the stones, there are other voices. Daniel tries to imagine a life where that does not exist for him, where his life is false and quiet and his awareness stops at the limitations of his skin. It's a hopeless endeavor.
That plant at their feet wakes up again. Stretches, coils, slithers slowly and gently and perhaps still afraid as it winds around Senua's ankle.
What is it, that Daniel seeks? ]
It gets harder, [ he says. Confesses. ] To remember what it's like to be human.
[ What is it like, to doubt? To be unsure of your place? To think about things beyond soil and sun? ]
You must remember everything.
no subject
Is that so terrible? [ Mouthed rather than spoken. How many times has she wished to be more rock than human, more thin air and silent grass?
But she knows nothing of him, his wants, the world he holds in his mind. She wants, even a little bit, to add to something good. ]
Can I help?
no subject
Can I help? she asks him, and Daniel's expression softens. He wonders what she will return to. ]
You're already helping, Senua. [ The corners of his eyes crinkle. ] You're talking to me, aren't you?
[ The tendril coils, reaches up, up, up. It hovers in the space between Daniel and Senua, and then simply— buds a flower. Each petal unravels slowly, almost shyly, in offering. Daniel makes a quiet, approving noise. ]
And you're helping her, too.
no subject
They should talk to you. Everyone.
[ She speaks as if it's inconceivable that he doesn't have an entire village fawning over him.
( He reminds her of someone. I won't say his name. I don't want to ruin this moment for her. ) There's just the one voice, the kind one. Her hand hovers near the bloom as if afraid that it might fall, before turning her palm toward him as an invitation. Reciprocity. Her eyes are blue and wide and steady when they finally meet his. ]
I have something for you.
no subject
Do you?
[ The flower opens, and then falls. Daniel catches it in his palm and murmurs a steady Thank you, and the tendril retreats backward, leaving only the bloom in its wake. Sleep will take this plant, soon. But it will be a deep one, invigorating, the kind that comes when you have done good work.
This flower, Daniel gently places behind Senua's ear. His hand comes to rest in her open palm. ]
Alright, then.
no subject
Senua holds his hand lightly, ready to let go should he hesitate. She does it with such ceremony, this giving of a gift that she fetches slowly from the worn pouch at her hip, before placing the small object against his palm, covered by both her hands. She dithers first, unsure if she is willing to part with something so important and also wary of his disapproval for a thing so worthless. ]
This will show you the way. It will speak to you.
[ Then, finally, she removes her hand to let him see: an angular twig with its surface worn smooth from too much handling. It is what it is: a small dead branch. There is no magic in it save what her mind imbues it. ]