He skids down until his coat tails are over his face, and his bum to follow. Smeared with sand, he dusts off and stands up to a new sight- a cave. And the girl is there.
Her young, oh young face; it’s like a virgin’s white mask at the evening carnivales of old. She suffers to stare at him with bright eyes full of a sense of intrusion before she, bright blue-lavender eyes and white braids and pensive muscles all spring away, to safety. To the cave.
And who is he to break that silence? It isn’t his. He’s not here to take today, he’s here to treat. As a physician. The magick man. The wizard who feeds the hero daydreams until he’s wise enough to make his own.
Naturally, he catches himself mumbling, but only after the fact. Naturally. Fight, flight, red, delight. Curds and whey and petrichor. Perhaps his brain stem is due for a tweaking next regeneration?
He’s still mumbling as he moves closer to the mouth of the cave.
“… rather like releasing raised pigeons back and forth, wouldn’t you expect?”
No answer. He expects nothing, and hopes for…
“I said, my dear, that it’s rather like releasing raised pigeons! There’s a faulty sense of accuracy all around!”