Thread by @tinylethologica

#scaralumi ; what is left unheld (or: a morning with you)

The warmth of dawn caresses his cheek like a blooming spider lily, petals come undone in its bloom, waking the wanderer at first light. He relearns life slowly, sluggish consciousness and twitching muscles,

regaining the function of his limbs, his fingers, his mouth. And, as always, the first thing he does is roll to the side, searching for what he may not find—never quite appeased enough to lose the habit.

The traveller remains sleeping, as she is every morning that he looks.

From him to her, an arm’s length; and yet, a thousand miles away.

Her lips ajar, her brows lax, chest rising and falling in a way he’s never quite been able to replicate in his own sleep. And he’s willing to bet all the nothingness he possesses, he would find it beating quietly, steadily,

if he were to reach out and press his palm to the skin above her heart—not that he would. Not that she would allow it.

Not after what happened with Buer.

Dragging himself from under the covers, mind still hazy with the unawakening that takes him under every night, the wanderer does not breathe as he stumbles toward her.

The grass beneath his bare feet is still dewed from the chill of the morning air, but he pays it no mind in favour of laying himself down next to her. Not in her bedroll though; for once, he doesn’t want to disturb. Not while she looks like this.

He raises his hand, the tip of his finger tracing her lines. The arcs of her closed eyes, the brush of her lashes, the loose curve of her golden strands as they lay above her skin, intimate in a way that he could never have no matter how closely he tries to wrap around her.

She is, as always, a thousand miles away.

The traveller looks most at peace when she’s asleep, the wanderer decides.

No knitting of her brows, no twisting of her lips. Are her eyes the same too then, without distrust, without guard? Was it the waking that made her into the weary traveller that she is?

He knows what he has done, just as she knows what he is. And the time it takes for the suspicion in her eyes to vanish always feels like an eternity, the time from when she sees the past to when she realizes the present.

In the corner of his eyes, the sky seeps lilac-pink, a canvas of dripping watercolour. Half-delirious, the mind of the mechanical being that is the wanderer proposes a question.

Measure: her kindness against her hatred. Then calculate: the hour at which a doll is picked up, the hour at which it should be discarded, and the span of time between.

The wanderer wonders when the shiny, new lacquer of the repaired puppet will lose its lustre in Lumine’s eyes. When will she finally learn that, for all his sharp remarks and arrogant pride, to destroy everything that he is, she need only look away?

Perhaps in sleep, she is doing exactly that. Only at peace because he is not with her. Soured by the self-defeatist thought, he leans closer, the fabric of his sleeve rippling as his shoulder bumps into her.

When that doesn’t make her stir, he laces his fingers with hers, slotting into the gaps like swords sliding into sheaths. Her rough palm lines cut acutely into his own smooth skin.

The wanderer presses his forehead to hers, strands of indigo woven into gold, the bridge of their nose barely touching. Hip to hip, porcelain to bone. In the light of dawn, he lives and feels—the soft puffs of her breath on his face, the heat of her blood—

the time between, the expand and the recoil, from inhale to eternity to exhale.

The gap close enough to kiss.

A thousand miles away, nevertheless.

“Hey,” he whispers. “It’s morning now, traveller,”

No reaction. He rolls his eyes, harrumphing with a childish petulance; how undisturbed she remains, despite their closeness, despite his touch, despite everything. He tugs at her arm, bumping foreheads with her once more.

Lumine opens her eyes blearily, and upon seeing him, a weary, knowing sigh before closing her eyes. “This again, wanderer?”

Despite the clear dismissal of his presence, he smiles. Thinly, veiled threat. Raising his voice, he croons sweetly, “Rise and shine, sleepyhead! The sun’s already in your eyes.”

The traveller’s eyelids flutter open, a hitch of her breath in surprise. Wariness and confusion in her eyes, startled into bright awakeness by the sugary syrup of his words. Snatches back her hand from him.

He laughs as the wind meets his fingers, as nothingness replaces something, before surging to topple her beneath him.

From between the cage of his arms, Lumine curls her lips. “Another trick of yours?”

“What?” He leers, flattening himself over her, their face so close that he could feel her eyelashes on his cheeks. Breathes, “Don’t tell me you actually thought I’d wake you up like that?”

Lumine snorts. “Who knows? Maybe I thought you’d hit your head too hard after falling. Maybe the archons answered my prayers by blessing you with a personality change.”

“The archons never answer prayers so directly.”

“Nahida does.”

“Buer doesn’t understand what’s good for her yet. Nor does she understand you.”

“And you do?”

The wanderer shrugs. “I’m not a god any more, traveller.”

“Thank heaven and earth for that,” Lumine mutters. “I’d rather have a stray wanderer than a vengeful god.”

And he can’t help but smile, pleased at the admission of her ownership. “If I was the god you prayed to,” he says sweetly, “I’d answer. I’d always answer.”

Lumine stiffens, struggling against the weight of his honesty. “No more tricks, I said.”

“It’s not a trick. You /know/ that.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

“I do.”

“…You’re not a child, wanderer,” she says.

“Of course not. A child wouldn’t do this, after all.” He dips his head to show her exactly what he meant, wanting in a way that certainly was not childish—only to be stopped by two fingers at his forehead, tilting him back.

Her lips, sunlight-kissed.

“It’s much too early,” Lumine says softly, “to be making bad decisions.”

He blinks. Smiles bitterly. Pushes her hand away, and presses his mouth to her anyway, defiant against a god’s judgement. It is: flitting contact like a butterfly coming to rest,

time stretching to eternity only to viciously snap back in reprimand, a tingling ache where lines meet. A touch, then gone. He pulls back. Diverging, again.

“My whole life,” he rasps, “has been a string of bad decisions. This is not that. This is a break from that. I’ve been cut away, traveller.”

“If you say so,” Lumine says.

She watches him carefully, as though he’s faulty porcelain. As though his very existence is too heavy; just sunlight itself could crack him.

She reaches out. Closes the distance. He leans into her palm, aching, wanting.

Her fingers at his cheek, brushing away tousled hair.

Her smile, sad knowing.

Her eyes, gentle pity.

And despite all this, still a thousand miles away.

[end.]

somehow turned into angst i'm sorry 🙇‍♀️

start of thread, if you'd like to reply/rt/etc:

https://twitter.com/tinylethologica/status/1599324775087628288?s=20&t=7Y7yUK4caLvcRVEuyg6zmQ

can be seen as a linked to these standalone canon setting scaralumi moments:

part i-v:

https://twitter.com/tinylethologica/status/1588799662043328514

part vi:

https://twitter.com/tinylethologica/status/1590223583405834241

part vii:

https://twitter.com/tinylethologica/status/1592004073217204226