His works sparked images in her mind, vivid, soaring, groaning, glowing, shimmering, slowly coming to life. A fever dream yet she was awake still...barely. She watched, unable to enter his memory, it was foreign, another world, she knew not the way to such decadence. Her world was...had he read her mind, or had she spoken? She did not recall doing so, but perhaps her moistened lips had shifted enough to moan a few words. Her world was one of dirt and crops and warm fires that smelled of earthy smoke that rose, not these sweet tendrils that shifted lazily in the air. What shone was bronze, and only in the midday sun, held just right, could it ever become blinding gold. But he read this on her, and told her it did not matter. That anyone could own gold, if you just reached out and plucked it. Slyly, swiftly, decisively.<br/><br/>She desperately wanted to yawn, there was a heavy presence in her head, dragging her down. His words were soothing, even as cool air rushed over her shame. Her hand twitched reflexively, but she made no further movement. Again he told her it did not matter, as long as she stole. She was use to that, but this voice was nicer, warmer, closer.<br/><br/>She was a fiend without imagination. But he wasn't giving up on her. She could learn. Learn to see. See the decadence he spoke of, until she could enter them herself, perhaps even create some of her own. Her own. She felt a sting as he described what would happen if she was too weak to build. Even that sounded kind. She was weak, but maybe she could learn strength. She could hide, look she was not there when she was. She could lie, speak an untruth, make it seem true. Perhaps she could make her weakness into strength.<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;">"My happiest memory, was yesterday? The trial. I fought a guard. Nothing but a cloak and dagger, he had armour, and a weapon. I kicked, and a ducked, and rose, to stab. I killed him,"</span>Not a lie. Not truly, not entirely. Draining certainly. She sunk down to sleep.<br/><br/><div align="center">------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</div><br/>In the morning Cris rose feeling, empty. A little lightheaded, rather weak, but it was all good. It was an absence of illness and other things, one that would allow her to regrow stronger. And until she did, she was only half here. Her feet made no sound she could hear, and her very body shimmered, hard to see, or so she imagined.<br/><br/>The smoke had almost faded, but it always lingered in this room, however faintly. In 100 years she could return and still taste it on the tip of her tongue. She looked around, finding herself alone. Weak arms, yearning to fall back to the bed and rest, somehow pulled her out of the bed, until she stood, naked and exposed in the morning chill. She hoisted up the blanket, wrapping it around herself, improvising a thick dress. Sweat had tangled her hair, but the fingers she ran through those locks sought not to straighten them, but rather to find a trace, anything, of him.<br/><br/>She headed to the kitchen, attracted to the smell of food. "Can I have some?" bleary eyed she gestured to the bowls of oats and roots and beans. She vaguely understood it was for her and the others, yet was not use to strangers giving away food, not freely. Waiting for an answer she sat down, careful as her dress was prone to coming undone at little prompting. Hardly what a boy would wear. She needed clothes. But first, food. She would either be given it, or she would have to steal it, when the woman wasn't looking. That couldn't be too hard, barely visible, quiet as a shadow.<br/><br/>Should she asked about him? Her midnight angel? No, no she couldn't. What if no one knew what she was talking about, that she couldn't find him. No, she couldn't ask yet.