It is odd to see another become like I - she may hide it from others, but I see all. When you are as quiet as I am, when one's mind drifts so endlessly... it is impossible not to catch the slightest movements of those around you. It is survival. To live, I must know when the other moves, where they plan to move and what it is that lingers in the thoughts behind their eyes. Others are dangerous. Others underestimate me. As dismal as I may be, I still see all. I can't help but watch her from the corner of my eye. The way she moves is peculiar, the way she seems to morph into another. It would not surprise me if she could. Often, I had seen mother contort and twist into someone else: her smile became a snarl, eyes different, face different. We aren't static. We can change but I do not. I am just... Wraith.
It is good, though, that they leave. They make me uneasy. Their size, their smell, their words. It is too much change, too much. This woman is at least familiar. I know the swamps, for it holds a part of me. I was born in the mud and raised in the mist. I, too, am part of it. To simply look at me is to see the dreariness of such a place. Taviora has not rubbed off on me. I am still thin, still pale, still bordering dead while my heart beats. She is familiar and yet, not. I can look into her though and see Ishtar... Baphomet... Rogue. I see them all reflect back in her eyes and in the fur she wears. I turn to her slowly, my bones creaking beneath my flesh as I meet her eyes with the corpse-like glimmer of my own. Companionship. Friendship. Things I have never been given. They are other worlds, and I am but a moon circulating them so hopeless. She beckons me to collide with her.
"Wraith."
It is all I say, nodding slowly as I take in her name and taste it. It is warm, like autumn. She is like the leaves of the trees, roasted red and yet, strong. I am positive I can feel an energy radiate her that I am unsure of - I can't help but shuffle atop my paws hesitantly. She is different. There is much I do not understand and she, too, is one of them. Why is she here? Why does she stand so close? Why does she mirror me, for I am one no other should desire to be like?
"Iromar?"
I inquire. I want to know. There is more to my question - it lingers. I ask not just of her origin but her reason. Like the mud, Iromar always pulls me back. I can feel it screaming in the back of my mind. Some part of me wants to be the bog. Some part of me wants to be cruel, to leech into others like the mist. Some part of me wants to break apart their lungs from inside. That is the part I deny - I must. It is all for my brothers... all for them. Maybe she will hear the curiosity in my voice...the desire to taste the fog once more. Iromar wants me, but I can't accept it. I want Taviora. I want the sweetness of Zeteri and the oaken smell of Coszcotl. I want Sen's warmth, his words of absolute acceptance. Iromar wanted me but it had never accepted it. I was but a corpse in the river waiting to sink.
I watch her then, my eyes focused entirely on her mouth. I want to see the words leave her mouth. Darkness surrounds us, perhaps, but words are light, vibrant, easily captured. My skin crawls being so near to her. She can likely feel it, that twitch and itch that ripples over me. Women... wolves... others... so near. Too much, too much.
wraith
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