（ by now these things are understood by rote. he stands within a memory, part of a shifting and fading crowd. where the light of alina's attention falls on the people, they are vivified. eyes and hair and skin gain colour and depth and warmth — when she turns, they turn shuttered and grey, almost listless, almost lifeless. an effect, as he understands it, of what she witnessed herself versus the gaps that imperfect memory has woven from the fabric of her lived experiences and the orb.
kirigan, somehow, takes up more air in the room than those around them. was it, he wonders, that her focus or her fear was on him then? he does not know enough to say — only what she had told him once, bitter and convinced he would use it against her as a weapon as if he had somehow drawn it out under torture.
things blacken and crumble as the scene around them shifts. people transmute into pillars of dust, and topple, and the scene rebuilds itself from the ashes. they are in a library, and he finds himself standing before a wall of books in a language he does not know, their spines thick and heavy with the gilt typesetting of another world, another time. one is taken down, as her light steps filter to him — but its pages are a roiling mess of ink, nothing comprehensible or that he can recognize via the skill of the sharingan.
when she calls out, he returns it to the shelf. ）
Itachi. I am here.
（ 'here' being along the back wall, with the bright light from high windows pouring in against him. it warms the skin, even in the shroud of memory.
the truth is, he has no desire to be here, to see what she does not wish him to. she is one who has had much taken from her, and he has participated in the taking himself — even this feels too much, too intimate, too close. he turns in the direction of her voice, and waits for her to come to him.
somehow, he looks impossibly at ease despite that discomfort within the press and crush of her imaginings, as if he has found a way to slip between the atoms and occupy a space that barely causes a ripple. he cannot simply turn off his awareness of and tendency to manipulate the mind. ）
no i love it i will chew on it hello (also taking some liberties wrt his perceptions, if it works!)
kirigan, somehow, takes up more air in the room than those around them. was it, he wonders, that her focus or her fear was on him then? he does not know enough to say — only what she had told him once, bitter and convinced he would use it against her as a weapon as if he had somehow drawn it out under torture.
things blacken and crumble as the scene around them shifts. people transmute into pillars of dust, and topple, and the scene rebuilds itself from the ashes. they are in a library, and he finds himself standing before a wall of books in a language he does not know, their spines thick and heavy with the gilt typesetting of another world, another time. one is taken down, as her light steps filter to him — but its pages are a roiling mess of ink, nothing comprehensible or that he can recognize via the skill of the sharingan.
when she calls out, he returns it to the shelf. ）
Itachi. I am here.
（ 'here' being along the back wall, with the bright light from high windows pouring in against him. it warms the skin, even in the shroud of memory.
the truth is, he has no desire to be here, to see what she does not wish him to. she is one who has had much taken from her, and he has participated in the taking himself — even this feels too much, too intimate, too close. he turns in the direction of her voice, and waits for her to come to him.
somehow, he looks impossibly at ease despite that discomfort within the press and crush of her imaginings, as if he has found a way to slip between the atoms and occupy a space that barely causes a ripple. he cannot simply turn off his awareness of and tendency to manipulate the mind. ）