A/N: I'm so sorry that I have gone so long without updating, and I'm also really sorry that I changed so many things. I just read it and went: Dear God what demon possessed me!?
Please don't kill me.
Everything belongs to Oscar Wilde and Angie Sage.
They glided past, they glided fast,
Like travelers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
The phantoms kept their tryst.
-The Ballad of Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde
It is dawn in the Port. The Port bargeman is feverishly hoping that the woman with a hood over her face will leave soon. All he can see of her are her eyes, one of which is ice blue, and the other of which is emerald. She sits with her arms crossed over her chest, studying the area around her. He can see her eyes dart back and forth, but no other feature of her face stands out. He's quite anxious for her to leave, if he is to be honest. Her eyes unnerve him. And that's not the only unsettling thing about her.
Occasionally, she talks to the empty air next to her, pausing and nodding as though having a conversation with someone, though there is no one there. The other passengers have given her a wide berth, and consequently there is a bubble of space around her, giving her freedom to gesticulate as well. The bargeman is relieved when the woman exits at the landing dock, and vanishes among the crowd, long cloak swishing at her ankles. And, unnoticed to anyone, a small, mangy-looking gray cat with a black-tipped tail trails along behind her, sniffing the ground for signs of rats or mice. The crowd part nervously around her, thousands of tense voices humming about the stranger in the Port.
Under the hood, the stranger smiles dryly. Quite obviously they don't remember the other stranger, about a year before, dressed similarly to her, but ah well. That is life. Striding forward with purpose, she marches through the Port, boots clicking on the cobbles, the dusty gray cat winding its way after her.
As she passes, a boy dressed in dark clothing, dark hair hanging in his eyes watches her curiously. He leans against a horribly pink house, narrowed eyes scanning the people who pass by. His eyes follow her, catching only a flash of green at her face. Some girls walking by glance at him and giggle rather childishly. Unnoticed to him, Merrin Meredith has grown quite attractive in the past year, the fact of which has not gone unobserved by the female inhabitants of the Port. His complexion has lost its pale, unhealthy look, and his shoulders and arms have filled out, swelling slightly with muscle. His face has gained definition, a sharp jaw and a strong chin. But, of course, he himself doesn't notice.
Watching the stranger, Merrin feels a peculiar sensation of pain, in the center of his chest. He doubles over, hissing, but it quickly passes, and he is left puzzling over it. As the stranger goes by, she feels a similar sensation, and traces it back to Merrin.
Her eyes narrow.