BLACK INK

WAKE UP I

Shinji somnolent, with his head resting on Misato's neck, feels Agro's hooves marking the dirt and then a walk on the gravel.

He hears the nostrils: vibrating, puffing, attending the short wind with it's dark mane.

Shinji imagines Agro in an endless path with clouds, as he lets the chair softness, Misato's warmth, and the slow balancing of the animal, sink him deeper in his tiredness.

His temple touches Misato's elbows, oblivious to it and only focused on the horse leash.

Shinji's head slips under her arms and falls to the path: a dusty wind pierces his cheeks, before hitting his forehead with a rock.

Hesitantly, he stands up. Half sleep -half slash on his forehead-, trips and hits his chin with a sharp rock.

With his eyesight fading away, Shinji manages to see a blurry Misato, stumbling down his way.

With a trace of clouds in the sky, a warm light in the dark brightens the duo under a cavity.

Something is cooking.

The sound of sparks wakes him up: his forehead is grotesquely stitched, sticky to the touch, and feels a hard-piercing pain the chin. His poncho is messed up from the fall.

"Well!", says Misato, "I was already thinking of eating it all by myself… Don't touch your forehead, it was really hard doing that thing you got there."

"Did…you clean your hands for that?"

"Ha! Do you have any doubts? Dont answer me, just grab a plate and eat something."

"What is this?"

"Stew. You already know I'm not great at cooking, but…", she chews something. "I think this time I surpassed myself."

"Misato, this doesn't look good…and the smell…"

"Want me to undo my work on your forehead? I've just finished cleaning Agro, come here!"

"I'll eat! I'll eat!"

"All of it!"

Shinji's fingers reach for a piece of meat: his mouth twitches at the flavor, but Misato's eyes forces him to chew it.

His chin hurts.

"Well?"

"Good," lies, "It's good."

"Yeah?"

"Yes…"

"Eat a bit more."

"I'm not very hungry."

"Shinji, I have a sharp knife here", she touches her armpit. "To undo those stitches. Finish your plate."

"Really, I'm not hungry."

"And me neither, but I've been cooking for three hours because you almost wrecked your head with a rock, what was I going to say to your father? Your son slipped and died?"

Always Gendo, never Shinji. It has been like that since beginning of the journey. Since Misato, a few weeks ago, introduced herself in front of Shinji as a guard and communicated his father invitation -wishes- to be reunited with his son after years of being divided.

Misato made of her invitation speech something truly colorful: decorating every word, period, comma, colon, semicolon, with broad gestures and a showy slang that was usually reserved to the royalty members.

And then, she handed Shinji the letter that Gendo had wrote to him.

A letter in an unknown handwriting. A concise letter. A precise letter. A methodic letter. A letter accentuated with finesse. A letter in black ink. A flat letter in the handwriting of someone who never visited him. An order, only decorated by Misato's bombastic introduction and her red cloak.

Shinji was happy by the possibility of riding Misato's stunning dark horse. And nothing else. He didn't want to ruin her presentation by doing questions his father never answered him.

And also because Misato was drunk.

Looking at the edges of the plate, Shinji wishes to be riding Agro: dreaming, feeling the soft wind and Misato's cozy warmth.

And his eyes remember the first night on the path: the moment she showed to him how easy she chugged her flask, and how fast she succumbed to the delirious effects: "For my eternal reward!" she had exclaimed to the silent Shinji in a toast gesture.

It was a personal celebration and Shinji felt out of it.

Misato noticed that, and after she finished refilling her flask, she trusted him the nature of her old job: "Crickets huntress!", she had said dragging her words and ready to demonstrate it with any stick she could find.

Shinji didn't know how to judge that statement, but as soon as Misato started cracking up: he felt wrapped in a warm feeling and joined her in a shy and genuine laugh.

And for a few instants, even the night felt warm with their laughter.

And Shinji doesn't remember much more than that. Probably because he ventured on Misato's strong flask.

However, a burning memory stands in his head, the intoxicated dream of that night: an enormous portrait made of cloth, moving around and finally shaping the form of Misato's red hood and her violet hairs, in a drenched aspect.

The dream didn't mean much. And maybe because of that, Shinji didn't know -doesn't know- how to feel about it.

With the bonfire lighting up his face, Shinji looks up to Misato's tired expression, her dry hairs, her cracked lips, her flush from drinking at least one flask, and then Shinji feels a second head yelling truths at his ear: Misato doesn't like him, and neither travels with him by her own will. It's for money. And by Gendo's order. An order. Misato's interest in Shinji it's an order. Her kindness it's an order. And money.

Shinji then says what he said during his fourteen years:

"Sorry."

And looking down on the bumps of his plate, he proceeds to eat. Not paying attention to the flavor.

Misato does the same.

They eat without tossing a word, and with the occasional sound of sparks and crickets.

They make the arrangements to sleep.

"We will be raising early tomorrow, Shinji", and then adds, "I'll have to make an effort."

"Okay, Misato."

"We should be there in two days. You are going to see your father.

Shinji doesn't have an answer for her. And he doesn't want to have one. He crawls up on his cold sleeping mat, in his cold body, and tries to sleep without any warmth to attend him, except for the decreasing bonfire and his worn-out blanket.

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Until next time!