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mythvoiced · 3 years
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And Thus Spoke the Immortal’s Heart
🦁 & 🐇
1600 Words + 10 Drabbles = 1610 16.10.2021 HAPPY ALEX DAY~ | @theimpalpable / @jeoseungsaja
When it comes to travels and the novelties they allow, he’s truly no stranger. He’s seen so much and yet, just by judging the scope of all he’s gotten to discover, learn, and stumble upon, by virtue of that amount alone, there must be at least ten times as much, or perhaps as much of a number he doesn’t even know, out there for him, or others like and unlike him, to discover.
That is the true nature of the world, the true nature of people, the true nature of having a nature at all, there is so much foreign and unfamiliar that it will never be exceeded by the number of things you know, and for that alone, for that reason and the other of kindness, for those two alone, travelling forever might not be that bad of a concept.
That bad of a plan. If you could even call it such, considering he never really planned anything.
He lets himself be led, guided by whims and turns and paths he doesn’t know where they lead, by people who need his help and he’s happy to give, by a song he can hear in the distance or a language he doesn’t understand, by anything that pulls his head into its direction, by anything that strikes him as different than before, or completely and downright new.
And sometimes, by a little bit of heart.
Because that little thing is most definitely in it, too. He’s perhaps the biggest perpetrator of this seeking, if it can even be called as such, for he’s usually finding rather than searching.
His mind is a companion on his journeys, it judges the outside and learns what is delivered to it – not always, of course, he’s no scholar, and he simply takes what comprehension he’s allowed to capture, no matter the diligence put in beforehand.
It is his heart, though, that truly leads this endeavour, the continued chain reaction of his existence, of his life, as odd as it feels to attribute that name to it.
His heart is the one with the whims, with the curiosity, and with the attachment.
The affection. Memories that resurface more often than others, things that remind him of others, of people, the heart leads the mind onto the path it must take its decisions on, it is the true one behind his desire to take a turn here and head back into the city, past the gates once more, walking by people he’s just greeted goodbye, stands he’s perused one last time, and views he’s by now incorporated.
There are trinkets woven into braids, long hair cascading over shoulders as if not a care as to who might see, who might grab, who might dare, because he can’t imagine someone actually would reach out and pull at such gentle locks, not when the features of the owner promise nothing but respect so long as respect is given.
Or at least he hopes, that’s the case.
Not so much in regards to character, but rather in regards to other’s reactions to it.
Because there so much gentleness coursing gently like a tranquil stream beneath the surface of a thicker skin, features hardened but not steeled, guarded but not shut, features and a voice that speak volumes of the weight on their shoulders, but don’t necessarily desire to blame the entire rest of the world for a weight it didn’t put upon them.
Wisdom of the likes stories only reserve to the likes of him, who’s been roaming this earth for far too long and far too diligently at that… as if he had a different choice and simply chooses to not pursue it.
It’s not too bad, really, when he gets things like these.
Calm hands capable in the craft of holding and leading and brushing, evident in the splay of their fingers, dedicated to the art of life and the art of giving life its beauty, of doing what is right, pursuing that idea, discovering the light behind it, trying to understand on which side the shadow is cast, how to best help the people around them, around all of them.
That’s the kind of person he assumes them to be, thinks them to be, sees them to be. Someone who is kinder than perhaps the world would reward, for it is usually such kindness that makes itself difficult to be shown, considering how often it is ripped apart before your very own eyes.
It is the sound of their voice, he wouldn’t exactly describe it as mellow, but how does one truly describe a voice with the abilities theirs has? To simply put all of the seas in his veins at ease, to turn winds into breezes, to be soft in a way that isn’t literally so at times, perhaps, or too evidently, but simply in the way it lingers on his soul when he doesn’t hear it a while.
The privacy of their smiles, a little hidden, a little guarded, most likely protected, kept safe as they should be, not quite as blinding as the one usually plastered on his lips, but ten thousand times more beautiful in contrast, because a sun is truly nothing in contrast to a moon, nothing at all.
Or rather, it simply pales in comparison. Fades out of its own mind, like it had happened to him, like it is happening as he walks the soiled roads through markets and side-streets, eyes darting here and there, even as his steps remain light and carefree, his gaze is too attentive to complete the illusion of not a care in the world, too seeking for a familiar shape of a being in appearance human but divine in soul.
They entertain his whims, they entertain his moods – as constant as they may be, they still entertain, it’s the notion, the thought, the idea – they entertain his discussions and his attention span. They entertain the desire to vanish to seek out an animal companion for just a moment and they entertain the inability on his part to truly put into words what it is that makes him so unlike any of the faces he’s passing, any of the faces that isn’t theirs, any-
Even their step is to admire, he notes as he catches their figure, the outline of their body growing familiar, the lines of their palms he’s begun to trace unconsciously whenever he’d undoubtedly drop his gaze upon them, as if he’s mere hesitations apart from reaching out and asking if it would be okay to hold onto it.
He’s grabbed their sleeve and he’s wrapped his hands around their gifts, because that’s another thing, they gift, they care, they see, and they wonder. They are goodness, they are kindness, they are all the things one should protect on this world yet finds so much difficulty truly shielding from everything else that continues to try and rip them out of their own existences, and attempt to trample upon them.
But, in spite of all those musings, and their back slowly inching closer as he speeds up, quickens his pace to catch up to them, as if a fear had begun instilling itself into his very core that one day, just maybe, or perhaps rather most definitely, he will lose this. He will lose them. They’ll fade out, either taken by existence as it tends to do to all beings but him, or simply by distance, by time, by fading out of sight because he moved, or because they move, or because they simply missed each other, one wrong turn and one odd step and they’re miles apart and he will never get to wrap his hand around their sleeve again.
When he does now, it’s almost desperate, clinging, as if trying to capture a ghost before it slips back into its own realm. When he looks at them, though, he smiles, because he can’t let them see that. Can’t let them see that he has a few clouds to show, too, only those he can’t help but see every now and then, when he allows his mind and heart to turn against him.
And because he can’t help himself. Can’t help the sunlight and can’t help the beaming and can’t help the tension fading out of his shoulders, his chest and limbs relaxing, easing under their attention, whenever he gets to perhaps catch a glimpse of it for himself.
He doesn’t try to be all too greedy, he’s not the kind to simply go out and take what he thinks he deserves, is rightfully is, neither of the things he considers their attention and their smile and their warmth to be. He’s not the kind to demand it even while knowing it’s not his own, that he is absolutely the least of all.
But he’ll gladly take what is offered, he’ll cherish the stone resting so gently against his chest, dangling from a necklace hanging from his neck that somehow distinctively reminds him of touch of the like not meant to trap but to ground, as if perhaps more of them than he realises keeps him attached to life as he’s coming to forget.
He feels alive, rather than stagnant, when they brush their calloused fingertips against his ever-smooth cheek, when they listen on with the silence of someone dedicated to comprehend and take in, when he gets to walk by his side, through streets growing familiar, wondering how they’d react if he were to give in to budding boldness and hook his pinky around theirs, if they’d hold his hand, if they’d continue walking by his side.
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