is there a reason why a broken dream can never fly
is there a reason you believe and then you close your eyes
give me a reason why you hide away so much inside
if there's a reason, I don't know why
They move through the months like moving through a dream, sitting still as the world turns around them.
After the first day, Yuan's fear disappears as quickly as it seized him. That night, he sleeps in his bed again—if only because Raine insists on taking the sofa instead. She always stays up much later than he, anyway, making sense of her notes and losing herself in sympathetic reflections until they shift into dreams.
Yuan always awakens before her, moving silently through his daily ritual and trying not to look her way. Often, he finds some excuse to busy himself outside, hunting or gathering or just sitting still to feel the flow of life all around him. After she awakens and makes herself presentable, Raine comes to the door to let him know it is safe for him to return. And they share a smile each morning, reflexive and reassuring.
So they settle into a rhythm. By day, Raine helps with what she can around the house—or rather, with what Yuan will allow her to do. By night, they document history and memory, by now synonymous. Yuan's stories become more methodical after their first session, a spoken autobiography following his earlier life. As he informs Raine, he prefers to establish as much context as possible before explaining his journey, and the first night was chaotic enough.
Yet Yuan knows, and Raine guesses, that laying out this foundation is primarily an excuse. Having so recently rediscovered himself, it is almost painful to delve into his personal past. Raine hears his hesitations, but does not make space for them in her notes, trusting that Yuan will tell her the whole story when he is ready. But she finds before long that her heart already cannot bear the parallels between them, and begins to wonder whether she will ever be ready.
It's something he says, a simple phrase Raine has heard countless times before: there are some things that are worse than death. Yuan speaks of his father, unknowingly adoptive, and his deathbed madness before the peace of his passing, but in that moment Raine sees her mother, forcibly forgotten all these long lonely years—sees herself, forever from now, isolated and insane.
Yuan senses something shift behind her veiled eyes, but he dares not inquire about it. If it's important, he thinks, she will tell him. But she only requests that he continue, her voice soft and dignified, and he has no choice but to obey.
By the time they exchange their nightly well-wishes, Raine has stretched herself to the point of exhaustion… but, though sleep claims her with merciful speed, her slumber is fitful. She thought she made her peace long ago, but memories of her mother and of motherhood return to haunt her in her first nightmares since she came here to bask in the eternal serenity of the Giant Tree.
As the day breaks, Raine comes to me and wants to cry. Instead, she sings, raising her voice in an unbroken lament. All the Elven songs she remembers—songs of mourning and homecoming, songs of meeting and parting, songs of love and war—spill out of her along with the tears she tried so desperately to suppress.
Her tone is raw and hoarse to her own ears, but melodic and mellifluous to Yuan's. It stirs him out of slumber, more compelling than birdsong. Rising, he wanders outside in half a trance to listen more closely. It has only been four elven lifetimes since his day; from what he recalls of the ballads his betrothed sang to her brother, the older songs have barely changed.
Silence falls, the last note ringing, and Raine finally remembers to breathe… but, as she hears the creak of wood beneath Yuan's feet, the air vanishes from her lungs. "Yuan," she greets him, caught off-guard by his undisguised presence. The tears have stopped, but her throat still aches and her eyes still sting, and she bows her head self-consciously. "I—I'm sorry."
Yuan only shakes his head. "Don't be," he murmurs, an echo of her words to him some time ago. But the quiet, once soothing, has become oppressive; he cannot let it be. "I was never fluent in Elven," he begins, but cannot think how to continue. The only language he has ever known is Celestial—not the tongue of angels, the heavenly agents of benevolence, but the same one they speak now, only from thousands of years ago.
"I'm not surprised you never learned Elven," says Raine, her voice broken but matter-of-fact. "You can pass as human. I had to pass as an elf." Yuan has not heard this story, and frowns, but Raine shakes her head. His past takes precedence; her own can wait. "But I can teach you."
Yuan blinks at her. "That won't be necessary."
Raine simply looks at him. Her midnight eyes are still tinged red, silver lashes stuck together with saltwater, but they are sharp enough to see through his excuse: he is not declining out of a lack of interest. "One is never too old to learn, Yuan," she tells him, the faintest hint of a smile twisting the corner of her mouth. "And besides, I'd like to learn Celestial. It's an even trade."
Yuan knows by now that there is an indomitable will behind her serene expression. This is as much a request as it is an offer, a plea for something to occupy her restless thoughts. He has little choice but to acquiesce, ancient sounds rolling rough and rusty off his tongue in a forced affirmative: "As you wish."
To Raine, the tones are half-familiar, individual words almost identifiable, but… different. As she repeats them back to him tentatively, and he corrects her, their breath provides heat enough for the days to melt together again.
This time, they are equals, each teaching and learning in their turn—but even after Yuan has no more to say about his upbringing, he prefers to delve deeper into the objective past, the history of his own time. It is still too painful to think of his companions, and in fact, it seems even more so lately. Though they say nothing, they both know why. The more barriers between them are dissolved, the more their identities blur, and the more recent all Yuan's many losses feel.
As the months pass, they seem to lose track of their individual selves more and more, history and historian becoming one… until one morning, seasons later, Yuan rises to find a sense of unsettled resolution in the air. Raine is already awake, staring sightlessly out the window; a decision has been made, and given that her bag is already packed and beside the door, Yuan knows what it means. "Are you leaving?"
Raine turns, smiling somewhat sadly. "If you'd rather I stay, you have only to say so," she says. "Otherwise, yes, I should go. My… descendants, I suppose, might be worried." She sighs, but there is no grief in the sound. "I've long since lost touch with my daughter's kin, but my brother's family keeps their own constantly in their hearts. I left without leaving much of an explanation, and it has been some time."
Yuan clears his throat, looking away. The thought of her having a home besides his own irks him in a way he cannot begin to explain. But then, perhaps that is her point in leaving; they have grown too used to one another's company, too dependent on the concept of togetherness. "Do whatever you want."
"I'm asking what you want," smiles Raine, approaching a few tentative steps. "But in any case, I won't be gone long; I promise."
Yuan takes a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. What he wants remains unclear, but what he does not want is to oppose Raine's desires—no matter whether she means the human or elven 'long'. "Safe journey, Raine," is all Yuan says, struggling in Elven, and unconsciously takes another few steps forward. (Close as they have become, there still seems an insurmountable distance between them.)
"Thank you, Yuan," responds Raine, in perfect Celestial, and gazes up at him. Though she barely meets his eyes, she does not move away; they simply linger, awkward as humans, closer than they have ever stood before. Something has been left unfinished between them, but no language is enough to convey their uncertain intention.
To fix it, she kisses him goodbye.