walkstheborders: (Modern sentinel)
It might have been a dream.

He woke, but the world was faded blues and grays, like his dreams so often were. He slipped from his sleeping mat, past the tent opening and out into the jungle while the rest of the Chopec slept.

He walked deep, off paths and worn tracks and into the jungle proper, where only his machete and innate grace gave him access. Into the wilderness, the true wilderness, where it may be been decades since human foot trod.

He walked until he face a temple, ruined now but once glorious, snarling beasts framing the collapsed doorway. And still he was compelled on, by noises he could barely hear and yet were clear like an echo in his chest.

Until he saw it.

Standing in the eaves of the stones, looking into the darkness he saw the creature, primal and ancient; a muscled bulk that stood nearly as tall as he did and shifted in the darkness with near silent footfalls. It came up to the doorway, peering at him through the stones and it snarled, sharp, pointed fangs glistening too white in the faded moonlight.

He did not fear it. Anymore than he would his own reflection. He should’ve, but he couldn’t find it in him to fear.

Then it turned and walked away, long, muscled tail flicking behind it as it walked back into the darkness.

He did the same.

He walked back into the camp, to the tent he was sharing with Incacha. The shaman looked at him as he walked in, then nodded once. “The cat sees you, Sentinel.”

He woke up with the aching sense that he dreamed a memory... or it was a memory of a dream.
walkstheborders: (Listen)
Jim woke up to a world flooded with sensory data.

He could feel the silk of his boxers against his skin, a sharp contrast to the incredibly soft, four thousand count cotton sheets he was lying on. The air currents were normal, warmer up in his bedroom, cooler downstairs, all windows and doors closed and the only hint of outside the tiny gap under the front door that was a small breath of fresh, cool air.

He could smell himself faintly, sweat and soap and shampoo. There was spice in the air, last night's leftovers in the fridge still a bit too richly scented for him to cut out completely. He could smell the familiar richness of his guide downstairs, sweat and aftershave and herbs.

He didn't bother opening his eyes yet, he could already see light and shadow from his skylight telling him there was nothing moved up here, nothing visible that had changed in the shapes of his room.

Most importantly was the influx of sound. Dogs barking outside, people walking the streets, birds on the roof, the drain downstairs bubbling, a cough from two apartments over-

And the steady, even beat of Blair's heart. Everything else faded and Jim rolled over and went back to sleep without ever quite waking.

Normal was relative.
walkstheborders: (Default)
Dear Jimmy,

I know things are bad. I know you're wondering if your mother leaving was because of you and Stephen, and if your father hates you for it. You've lost a lot of important people and things feel like they're going to keep getting worse.

They'll get better, though. It might take time, but they will get better.

And more importantly, kid, you're not a freak, no matter what anyone says. One day, you'll start to believe that.

Jim.

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walkstheborders: (Default)
walkstheborders

September 2009

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