Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters belong to their respective owners, of which I am not.
She stood in the doorway, mesmerized. It was nothing special, nothing that should have stalled time. Curls bent over, chin tucked into the collar of an oversized flannel shirt, stolen from her father on her last visit home, to ward off the chill. A fire crackled in the background, a log popping behind the grate. She was reading, nothing new; Myka was the one person she had ever met that read as she did. It was as necessary as breathing. Ridiculous oversized glasses slipped down a thin nose, were pushed up, only to fall down again. Socked feet pulled tight to the body jockeyed and fought, finally slipping between the cushions of the small sofa, and the work elastic let the hem slide down toned calves to bunch at slender ankles.
The wood of the frame creaked beneath her grip as she forgets to breathe. She simply cannot remember how. She tried, but her throat filled with bile, choking off her air. And she stared. Lip fell victim to teeth, being pulled and tugged in time with the movement of eyebrows and the tap of a finger. The little volume, bound in red and tattered around the edges, became a thing of envy. It had the attention of soft eyes and sharp mind. It had the time of kindness and strong will. With a tilt of the head it had understanding.
She burned, ached with all that was foolish and mad. She was cruelty wrapped in good intent and misadventure, a peddler of false knowledge. The logs crackled, Myka shifted and she set down her sign. She dragged herself across the short space, leaden feet readying themselves again for a softer metal. Myka looked up and smiled, a half-movement of lips that faded away with her shadow. Feet shifted and she crawled forward, reaching to wrap herself in those things taken by that book. She pulled that understanding to her, buried her face in kindness and breathed in her goodness. She rubbed her face in warm flannel.
Worried fingers found her hair, carding through it, pulling her in. Her arms pulled tighter and she closed her eyes tight against the brightness of her. The shirt slipped aside and her nose fell on warm skin. Heat coated the back of her neck, pulling her closer, chasing away the dark. She was burned away, wrappings gone, shop destroyed. She would find a new skin. "Helena?"
"Do not let me go to Egypt." That little book, old and tatty, fell to the floor. It would learn of envy.