jamie
from the destruction, out of the flame
He wonders, but does not ask, what it is that makes her feel as if she’s not real. He wonders, but does not act on it, if she would dissolve should he try to touch her, too. Are her edges soft like his? Is she compressed light in the same way that he is compressed darkness?
He almost reaches out to make good on his earlier impulse to touch her just to see. But he does not, just smiles a shark-tooth smile. It is enough, for the moment, to think that perhaps they are not so different after all.
And perhaps her eagerness to help means that she has forgiven him for the way he had turned his face away from her, hidden behind his sister’s shoulder. And he wonders, in some abstract way, if it matters. While his lungs rattle and he thinks about that phantom ache and how desperately he wants to lie down and sleep, he decides that it does not.
But he watches, quite enamored, as her magic snakes out of her. A real and tangible thing. So much like his fog, his sister’s smoke. He almost shies away from it. If he had a flank, certainly it would tremble. If he had a flank, certainly he would swing his tail against it as if the magic that comes for him is something to be discouraged.
But he has no flank and he is no coward, so he stands still, resolute, as he receives it. And he feels it. The warmth of it. Unlike anything he has ever felt before. The knees go weak with the relief of it as he exhales a wheezing breath. It chases away the exhaustion, the aching, the throbbing. It does not matter if it is real or imagined when it’s gone.
The eyes fall heavy closed a long moment, reveling in the comfort of it. He even manages to draw in a long breath that does not rattle or rasp. For the space of this one breath, he is almost normal. Certainly as near to normal as he will ever be.
But he is no fool, Jamie. And he uses what strength she lends him to cast himself out of the reach of her magic. The pain is prompt in its return, almost immediate, if not slightly less than before. Still, he smiles that same shark-tooth smile, tilts his peculiar head in her direction. “Thank you.” The rasp returns but he feels no urge to sink back into her space, lest he become addicted to the feeling of all that freedom.
you need a villain, give me a name
