“The washroom is through there,” Cirian pointed towards the far corner where a door waited. “I’m a creature of habit, so I’ll be taking a quick bath before retiring for the night. Please, make yourself comfortable. I have blankets in the closet there, and the sofa sleeps like a dream. I nod off more times than not while lounging.”
He moved for the washroom, then stopped himself after a few steps.
“Oh, I could send for a change of clothes if you’d wish?”
“That won’t be necessary,” I declined. “I am more than capable of spelling my clothes clean in the morning. And I don’t wear much to bed.”
My cheeks warmed at the confession, and I wondered why it had come so easily. It was something about this room, and the lingering warmth in the air.
“Fair enough,” Cirian said with a chuckle, unzipping his hoodie and shedding it onto the bed. “Well, I won’t be long. Just give a knock if there’s anything you need in the meantime.”
“Right. Thanks.”
He gave a final nod then proceeded to the washroom, shutting the door behind him.
I let out a sigh, running a hand over my locs and tucking a few behind my ear. The hour was late, and my day had started so long ago that all the details blurred together. Shedding my own jacket, I paused, fetching the parchment from the interior pocket and tucking it between the pages of the journal I kept in my back pocket. I fought the urge to pore over the details once more, but my eyes burned with strain, and mulling over it would more than likely increase the hopeful anxiety that already twisted my gut.
Sinking onto the sofa, my curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned forward, grabbing the book from the side table, careful to hold the place as I turned to view the cover.
The Dust of Dusk Tread ‘Cross the Floor.
It wasn’t a title I was familiar with. I flipped through the pages.
“Poetry?” I muttered, scanning through the first few couplets of a chapter. To my surprise, it held my attention. I was never much for works of fiction, even in the lyrical sense, and although it was not something that I would typically find myself engrossed in, pages began to flow like sand in an hourglass.
The poems told a narrative of a man, lost in a desert under a sky of eternal dusk, who had set out on the journey to be reunited with the one he loved most. He found many hardships amongst the desert sand, but with each passing hour, his resolvegrew only more resolute, even as his body began to wither and fail.
“I do hope you saved my place.”
I jumped at the voice, shutting the book and glancing over my shoulder to find Cirian swaddled in a robe of royal blue, his hair tied back from his face and his cheeks rosy.
“Sorry,” I muttered, setting the book back on the bedside table. “Yes, I marked it for you.”
Cirian’s childish grin lingered as he crossed to the other side of the sofa, snatching the book up and shoving over the pile of pillows to make room for himself. “It’s engrossing, isn’t it? It’s one of my favorites. I’ve read it at least a dozen times over, and it always helps me through times of hardship. As you can imagine, the subject matter is even more profound at present. Ah, but here I am boring you about poetry when I’m sure you’re far more well-versed on the subject.”
I shook my head, settling back into the plush warmth of the sofa. “My interests typically fall squarely inside the confines of history. I’m afraid I don’t venture past those boundaries often.”
“Really?” Cirian questioned, his features twisting with surprise. “That is… unexpected.”
“Is it?” I asked.
“Forgive me. I don’t mean to poke fun. You seem to keep surprising me, is all.” He pulled his leg up onto the sofa under him, grabbing the book once more, then turning to face me. “So, you’re not familiar with this work?”
“Not at all,” I admitted. “I lack the patience for poetry.”
“Mmm,” Cirian hummed. “You’ve simply not found the right kind, then. Though it seems there was something about this story that held your attention, yes? Tell me more.”
I pondered the question, not quite sure of the answer myself. What was it about this book that drew me in where others had not?
“You’re unsure,” Cirian concluded for me.
I nodded.
“That’s nothing to be concerned over. Many struggle to put into words the resonance that art can imprint on their souls.” He let the book fall open on his lap, flipping slowly through the pages. Tendrils of his crimson hair fell loose of their bindings, trailing down into his eyes. “I’ll share what makes this volume so special to me.The Dust of Duskis all about longing. The grueling ache for the intangible. Those desires that linger just out of reach, forcing you to trudge onward. I’ve experienced my fair share of longing, Bast. Things that I have wanted so deeply that they carved themselves into my bones. I feel like the protagonist most days. Forcing myself to keep moving forward when all I truly want to do is lie down and die. But the longing is more powerful than those urges to quit. More powerful than most other things. It drives me onward. Forcing me over dunes and through mire to reach what I so desire.”
He closed the book again, looking up at me with eyes of obsidian glass.
Then I felt it. A twinge in my chest that made its presence known as a thread, faint and glimmering. It emerged, spiraling slowly till it connected with Cirian.
