The Selkie wrote:It was wonderful to not be the centre of attention for once...
Eiko was first to notice the woman, tilting his head up, his face softening from his usual iron-rigid neutrality as he swirled the cup in his hand. "Miss," he said, "are you all right?" His voice was the smooth grace of a prince that had lived and seen the world pass, of someone whose young age lied about all that they had seen, of someone who carried a burden like an ill-weighted backpack. It carried rest and respite on the sounds of its vowels, carried an unspent childlike love that Eiko still had burning within him.
It burned hard, burned bright within his throat, all those moments never to be and all those words that he had never said, and he rose. "I think it's better that you sit," he said, gesturing to his seat. "You look nervous." Whatever he had felt, he obfuscated with charisma and created crown. Let that lament lay down.
"Aye, miss," Madara agreed. "It's a party here, after all. No need to press yourself if that's what you're feeling."
At their side, Lady Murasaki eyed the newcomer, face sharpened with makeup and her typical resting. Not anger. Caution, carefully trained to serve as a sentinel to her princely charge inasmuch as the boy seemed capable of caring for himself.
A web of promises between them, whose foundation had been lain years ago and whose relic-strings still ran between him and her. Unsaid. Unknown. Some final gift.
When Marla at last had herself seated, Lady Murasaki glanced away, and then looked back at her. "Right," Madara cut in, "we really ought to introduce ourselves if you're bound to sit near us. Name's Madara Suiseki. Police chief, of sorts." The smirk of a guardian lion brought to life spread across his face, something like a detective realizing the two-word inconsistency in an alibi that brought an entire gang to their knees. "The woman here is—"
"Lady Murasaki," she said. "Do you want a drink, miss? You look a small bit ill." Next to her, a bag of matcha tea fell from Eiko's sleeve into his lap, but he made no effort to point it out, nor to introduce himself until Madara patted his shoulder.
Purity washed over Eiko, a purity of feeling that washed him from the visages of acting, leaving behind just a boy in odd robes and an even odder lacquer wood cup, left open and bound to spill with the slightest movement, but he remained still. Still in movement, in emotion. Whatever impulsivity resided within his teenage form had long been quelled and quieted, or perhaps it had never existed in the first place.
"Eiko Michori," he said, bowing his head. "I'm just an actor."
"Hnh." Madara leaned next to him and gently punched his shoulder. "Just the actor."
"Just an actor."
He pulled back, still smiling; he had a face that needed a pipe, smoking and hanging loose, to complete his look. A small vice to depict the energy, one that was nothing like a police officer's, that irradiated from him. Granted, there was no solid proof of anything ill within him. Just an energy.
