Act II Scene iv

There it is again!

That peculiar rumbling at the outermost boundary of Toushirou's consciousness. Always coming and going — mostly going — during his most placid moments and demanding his attention, low and warbling, though its pitch. He's not sure what to make of it, not sure how to vanquish this invisible threat to his peace of mind.

The sound alone is not disconcerting; his world is full of sound. The whisper of falling snow, the swoosh of wings cutting through the air, and the occasional ferocious roar issuing from his maw when the impulse arrests him.

No, that isn't it at all. Rather, the idea that this sporadic rumbling has no external source, no ready explanation, is most unsatisfactory. Moreover, a far-flung corner of his brain is sure the idea is also impossible.

One of the talons extending from his left foreleg's paw catches a chink of feeble winter sunlight, drawing Toushirou's gemlike eyes from the ground far below and his attention from the maddening auditory illusion. The usually uniform sparkle of his body is interrupted by a minuscule fissure. The opaque white crack in his talon seems to glare back at him defiantly, stubbornly refusing to shine.

Startled by this discovery, Toushirou spins, completely a sort corkscrew movement, to see as much of his bulky frame as possible. But the effort yields little more than a scrambled impression of cool blue and glitter; he cannot tell how many — if any — other fractures he's accrued over the last… how ever long he's been flying.

Here, time is oddly disjointed. Toushirou need not sleep, eat, or count something so trivial as seconds passing. In fact, he cannot remember the last time his flanged talons sunk into the tundra below.

Perhaps, they never have. Maybe, he's never touched the ground.

These stuttering observations — once again engaging that far-flung corner of his mind — engender compelling questions, questions which compete to seize control of his splintering thoughts, yanking in one direction than another with the rapidity and force of blizzard squalls.

Meanwhile, the unhappy white crack in his talon supplies a silent warning, a line like that of no return. Inside, the nonsensical rumble intensifies to a distinct crackle — a not-so-silent warning — like that of demolition under extreme pressure.

It's me, he realizes with a jolt of uncomprehending panic. The rumbling… And with that unsettling thought, he banks sharply to the south, intent to reach the sun-gilded glaciers, to discover the extent of the damage in their reflective faces.

As he races, wings lashing furiously against the wind, the resultant air resistance breaks upon him mercilessly. His eyes sting, and snout smarts; and the unpleasant sensations dredge nightmare memories from another neglected corner of his mind.

The contents of this derelict corner are confused and swirling like hot breath smoking in frigid atmosphere: not tidy recollections, not pictures on a reel. Just the ghost of a ghost, not substance, but shadow: the afterimage of forgotten face.

Leaving him convinced that something more exists than he and this snowy paradise but completely unaware what that something might be.