by Clair de Lune » Mon Feb 13, 2023 7:40 pm
These are the ways the world turns, the lodes of power that pin its surface. These are the ancient places, that cannot be moved or renamed. Clair lives in them all, moving from birds burrowing in the earth to the creatures dwelling in the trees, so small that they hide in cracks in the bark. She is in Paris, then Rouen, then Calais, and only then does the sun set. The world is abuzz, filled with rumour and pregnant with possibility, and she feels it. The buzzing in the brain, the possibility of a future that is not like the present. Something is coming across the sea, and for once Clair stays in one place for more than a day. She stays on a rooftop, barefoot and unnoticed by the world, for twelve days, descending only to steal what little food she must from a populace that simply does not have the sense of sight to know she has taken from them.
It is a stakeout, of a sort. Over the channel the stormcloud looms, the great source, a gigantic fluttering butterfly waiting to hurricane across the water and be in her presence. To change or be changed? She does not know, but somehow the currents of the world are shimmering and shuddering. The sun rises and sets, hours are spent motionless, without speaking to another human being, and at last she sees the needles converge, the sharp points touch, and a ship begins to cross the channel from Dover. The occupant, whoever she is, does not know she is being watched. Clair takes the form of an albatross - or perhaps she is simply gone, and the albatross happens to soar overhead in the direction she would have gone - and travels for half an hour to meet the ship, wheeling overhead and alighting on the roof. Tourists take pictures; she doesn't care. The seabird preens its wings, watching, waiting, and then it sees her.
It knows her immediately, marks her as the target, but does not follow it. It simply waits, occasionally taking wing to catch a fish, and when there is sight of land a lone pigeon flies away from it, and gradually all eyes turn from the albatross until it is gone. The pigeon follows Robin through the city until she boards a train, where Clair so happens to already be aboard, the conductor not noticing her. At one time they make eye contact - the distant, suggestive scent of rare, exotic spices will stay with Robin for days afterwards, especially when Clair is near, especially when Robin does not know she is near.
Clair just happens to be everywhere Robin is going, unnoticed, though she still does not know her name. After a full day of watching her progress, though, Clair knows - she knows the shifting ways of the soul enough to know that this thing is not a girl, any more than she is. She observes as Robin goes into the forest, observes as she wanders without a direction, travelling somewhat southward. This forest was grown to get lost in; she would need a guide. And so, as the world had been assuring her, Clair's moment came. She cocked her head, pursed her lips, and whistled a clear, bright birdcall, over head head and into the woods, and the birds heard; they caught Robin's attention, guided her ever southwards, clear and forward.
Eventually, though, like all the uninitiated, she has to sleep. Clair is sitting in a tree, watching her as the sun goes down, the forest turns to absolute darkness. It is rare that Clair meets someone so comfortable with being alone; but then, everyone akin to the Moth must be willing to be alone, such that not even they are a constant in their own lives. Clair's face has changed seven times since Robin touched her foot to French soil.
Clair watches as the reveal is revealed; the shapeshifter, the skinchanger, I knew I knew I knew she was special. Clair feels the Moth radiate from her, the thrumming power of change used simply to erect a tent, a use so lackadaisical it almost makes Clair cry, scream, not in anger or sadness or anything a human could put a word to but in feeling nonetheless. Instead she perches in her tree, Robin never thinking to look up, and waits for the future.
Clair drops soundlessly to the soil, even the twigs knowing not to snap, and pads on feet and fingertips soiled completely by loam to the tent, crawling inside without even checking the threshold, knowing that there was nothing to stop her here. The girl sleeps soundly, and is beautiful in her sleep. Clair's lips and the floating halo of her hair brush gently, so barely, over that soft, pink skin, and then she smiles ferally, and her teeth are sharp like knives. Something hits the side of the tent. When Robin jerks a little, not quite upright but aware nonetheless, she is gone.
Instead of being in the tent, the crow that hit the side of the tent is perched by the fire, and Clair happens to be sitting behind it - though she will not be noticed until the crow takes flight, when Robin has had time to examine it, but not to touch.