The Selkie wrote:I was so glad, that Amy was more occupied with talking with Aither...
Alegeharia wrote:Malik smiled...
Kaz paused, looking out to the sea with a half asleep smile. "Pawn you off?" Kaz said. "No, no. Nothing like that. It's just... well, Eiko's here. He's a phenomenal actor, but he's still trouble; you'd know it if you get to meet him." He reclined, frowning. "I'm just warning you, that's all. I wouldn't want a kid like you getting to know someone like him all too well." He paused. Just what was with Eiko? Maybe it came with the acting, but even then, most of the actors were more reasonable than him, had some sort of identity other than acting.
But Eiko? Even his daily tea ceremony was an acting ritual that he pilfered off of one of his roles.
"But enough about him." Kaz smiled. "Sad to hear about your brother. He seems the kinda wise guy that people would enjoy being around for one reason or another. Hunting sounds like one of them, but I'm only a falconer. Unfortunately, my bird's not here with me. He's not one that likes being taken abroad."
He tilted his head a little at Malik's mention of Amy. "No surprise. Even back home, I'm known to have an irresistible charm to most. Wouldn't mind putting that to the test with your little game." He set his arms behind his head, tilted his body back, and he basked in what light there was as it flowed over the contours of his athletic form. "Eiko's one of those exceptions, sadly, but... I don't need him. It's his loss." When he heard Amy's offer, he frowned. Seemed he wasn't the priority anymore.
No matter. Besides, it seemed the other didn't want to, anyway. "If there's someone you'd like to dance with," he said, "I wouldn't mind giving it a try. I've danced a fair bit in my own music videos and with others. Whether you can keep up..."
The Selkie wrote:We reached the hotel in good time, comfortably as well...
Park remained silent, but nodded at Ribin. "I'll tell him, but... I don't think either of us are to blame. It's something else." She glanced away, sighed, when her shoulder was touched; everything she had done was her best, that was clear, but as an Ezharan, it didn't feel right. She felt like she should've done so much more, but this was a first in Eiko's life— that all this time, he was utterly devoted to acting to the point of every tear and smile coming back to it, yes, but he never showed his hurt.
Maybe that should've been clue enough. His complete ambivalence to everything was unparalleled, even among the Talents, some of whom were about as passionate, but they still felt like kids.
Like people.
Eiko was drained of all that individuality, but it couldn't have been the acting industry. Not in Ezhara, where incidents of lynching against cast and crew alike indicated that any rumor of abuse would be sniffed out and repaid in horror.
When Ribin touched Eiko's hair, he paused in his murmurs, and stared up at her, lost as ever.
"Mom?"
At the kiss, he turned silent. One last memory, the survivor, crawled out of the recesses of the battlefield, carrying the tattered standard of his name, unwilling to falter.
It was not the final memory, no. That one had already arisen and faded like a dusk-night-dawn. It was simply him and her, in a dinghy apartment, with a bowl of white rice in front of him as he bounced on top of a pillow they had pilfered from a friend. His mother was at the stove, cooking a crackling egg, humming along to an old Shihoko Mui song barely audible from somewhere outside the room. Even back then, he could still remember the lyrics just enough to imagine it.
That was all he ever had for a toy. No fancy bricks, no dolls, no backgrounds. Just what he could tell himself from his memory, and as his memory's mother approached him, her mouth grinned, but her eyes remained exhausted.
"Eiko," the memory said to him. "I think the chicken that this came from must have lived in a very lovely home. Mom thinks she made something real good out of this."
"How big were the paddies, mom? And were the chicks—"
"I'm sure it did, Eiko, and every day, I'm sure there must've been a braver little one who'd try to get the others to go explore."
"'I wanna see what's outside. Dad says there's a big white and black thing that lives out there, and every day, the owner would go out, and the thing wouldn't hurt him. I wanna see how.'" Memory Eiko looked up at his mother. "Like that, right?"
"Mhm." She pat his head.
And kissed it.
"Now, eat your breakfast. It's going to get cold, soon."
"Cold? Like a mountain adventurer? Do you think the Chol... Chol..."
"Cholätipaqmi?" His mother looked up at the ceiling."I think they could, Eiko. They could get fish and fruits and all kinds of things. All fresh. Imagine that."
Eiko adopted a more regal attempt at a voice as the image of a morning summon was conjured up in his mind. "'Get me the finest fish for dinner, runner.'"
"But the journey is going to take so long, Eiko."
Now, he was that messenger, and he nodded. "I can do it."
"Can you?" There was no doubt in that question.
"'If the birds can make it, then so can I!'"
For the outsider, it was little more than a pointless little story, the sort that only a mother could give to her child. For him, it was little more than everything.
Everything came back to stories. For him, his mother wove everything into a story; their mealtime rituals, what little they had, had its own story for this or that ingredient. Out on the streets or in the theaters, she helped direct him to tell a story. "Feel happy, like you're a hero who just came home," she'd say, or, "Imagine," or, "Remember when you..."
Every moment between them became an inspiration, and it was all he could hold onto from her.
"Come on, Eiko," Park said. "Let's go."
Silence. The nostalgic past had gently captivated him, put him into a childish exhaustion that would've been adorable had it not been for the circumstances; at the very least, it was easier to manage him now.
Humming the
ballad that Gisara had written so long ago, Park sauntered into the hotel, past the halls, into her room; to those who noticed her, she only gave a sideways glance. Then, when she came in, she set him down onto a chair, watching as the little lost boy's limbs fell onto the armrests, becoming limp and doll-like, his cup grasped between his right index and middle fingers. "I'll get your clothes," she said. Would he hear?
It didn't matter, anyway. She popped open his luggage, finding first probably a hundred packets of matcha tea, which at least made sense considering how many he drank. Still, she needed to get his clothes; she filtered through the green kimono... green kimono... green kimono...
All he had were green kimonos.
She stroked the one on top. It wasn't any million-dollar piece, of course, but the silk was still smooth, luxuriant. It had an antiquated comfort to it, like that Ancient Prince that Eiko had acted as so long ago, and whose legacy was still apparent, what with the green hair and matcha obsession. For that matter, the kimono was an exact replica, although the fact that he had enough copies of it to last perhaps five days was... fascinating. There wasn't even a yukata, which would have been vastly more comfortable for the beach. She had heard of his eccentricity before, of the way that he "drank a cup of matcha per hour" or how he always and only wore a kimono. He had acted without it before, sure, but he was still pretty much attached to the green and its blooming flowers and matcha aroma.
Sighing, she picked up one kimono set and set it inside the bathroom. "Eiko, whenever you're ready..." she said.
A mechanical nod.
"If you need anything, say something, okay?"
The gears, the mechanisms of his nod turned more slowly this time, as though choreographed by some half-asleep puppetmaster.
"Is..." No, she couldn't ask that, not when he was sitting there, unmoving, unfeeling. Nothing was all right. "Look, you're in my care for now. If anything comes up."
A mechanical nod.
"You should... get going," she said. "Besides, I need to call your mom."
"Don't..."
Park paused and stared at the boy, whose hands had now clenched over the arms of the chair. "Eiko, she needs to know what's happened to you. It's my responsibility as your chaperone... even if this'll end up doomin—"
"She won't like it." His heels had lifted off of the floor.
"Of course she won't, but... you're not going to get better if—"
Now, his head lifted up and his fingers tapped to some unknown rhythm, but no emotion showed. "She won't understand."
Park pulled out her phone. "Eiko, just trust me."
Her finger touched the screen, and her wrist suddenly froze. She glanced down to see Eiko had grabbed her hand, and the hundreds of acts and characters he had created, honed, loved, had coalesced into one constant:
Fear.
Park stared back. For a few seconds, neither of them budged. Then, the acts melted away, away, away, back to Eiko. Back to four-year-old Eiko, whose grip weakened, slipped. He backed off and stared at the floor. "I'm sorry, miss."
"Just... trust me, Eiko. I'll try to make it up to you, someway, somehow, 'kay?"
A nod.
He slinked off to the bathroom, and Park looked in her phone for his mother, Tomoe Michori, a chipper woman who always carried a parasol. She always smiled, laughed loudly, offered invitations to luncheon and other such delights. Only...
Why did Eiko never smile near her?