Alluvion

[Patricus I]

Philip absorbed these mysteries with devout attendance to each clue. He was accustomed to being the shadow behind the screen and wearing enigma like a cloak. That the roles were reversed bothered him for his own limited insights as much as the injustice of a girl’s undeserved fear. Certainly, she was afraid of the all-intimidating ’him’ whomever he be. The shivers wafting from her skin rippled the air as much as it did his dream flesh, but the emotion permeated like a foul stench. He sneered with the distaste of all of it. “Another wolf will keep them away,” he said, and on the heels of proclamation rolled a promise: “Me.”

He lurched in the heaving swirl of worldly motion that followed. A prelude was absent to the change, and in the midst of far-flung souls, his hand gripped upon hers tightly to prevent their ripping apart across the divide. A downness dropped them into a new place, or perhaps an upness rose while they remained fixed. Either way, what he beheld was completely unlike the previous experiences. The room was in constant flux, but it wasn’t a wind that tossed the ever-changing environment. As soon as his eyes settled on something, it disappeared. Even the furniture shifted.

He wasn’t sure if the loft was a home or an art studio, maybe both. Paint splattered furniture as much as the walls. The same speckles decorated Nimeda’s fingertips. “This is where you live,” he noted the flickering dishes around a sink and blankets shifting around on a couch. A charming life she must lead, like the souls of old.

Curiosity pulled him to the cityscape displayed through the window. “Moscow,” he said to himself. After a few moments, when he turned to regard her, his hands were clasped gently in front of his waist. Whatever it was he was waiting upon, he clearly wanted her to fetch it for him.