My fists clench by themselves. Everything revolves around me in a way that feels increasingly uncomfortable, as if I’ve become the center of a system I never agreed to participate in.
I close my eyes again, and against my will, I see him standing at the edge of Red Rock.
He moves like a man who doesn’t need permission for anything. He simply stands there, as if the world around him is optional rather than binding. As if he is the center of everything.
A perfect view. You can see every place you can’t go.
I open my eyes again, irritated by the fact that the words still linger.
“Damn it,” I mutter into the dark. “He really got me going.”
But it’s not like I’m totally alone here. I know who to talk to about this.
- - -
Morning arrives with a gift. It’s a thin iron disk the size of my palm. Beside it lies a carefully arranged bundle of flowers.
I stare at both for several seconds before I speak. “What exactly am I looking at?”
“That was brought for you,” Cora says, glancing up briefly from the herbs she’s sorting. “Atnag’ox left it. Right before he went off duty. He said he wanted you to remember him.”
I look at her, then back at the disk. “The disk?” I ask carefully.
A smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “What about it?”
I pick it up and turn it over. “Oh. It’s been polished.” The surface is smooth and just about shiny enough that I can see my own reflection, unfocused and low-res. “Is it supposed to be a mirror?”
“Bryar used a big mirror to chase away a monster, and the cavemen can’t forget that,” Cora says. “I suppose they think Earth girls just really like mirrors.”
Someone has braided the flowers into something resembling decoration. It’s pretty enough, and I’m sure Atnag’ox has picked them outside the wall at great personal risk.
I scratch my chin. “So the mirror is a weapon? I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or concerned. And what do I use the flowers for?”
From the stairs, I hear footsteps. Another warrior appears at the top of the platform, carrying something large under one arm. When he sees me, he immediately straightens as though presenting himself for inspection. I vaguely remember him as another guard that’s been up here on the plateau to “check for dangers”.
“Morgan,” he says proudly, “I’ve brought you a gift.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Good grief,” I say under my breath.
He steps forward and reveals what he’s carrying.
It’s a chair.
Or at least it’s something that once had the idea of being a chair and has since suffered a great deal of enthusiastic interpretation. It’s made of uneven wood and stretched dinosaur hides, and it tilts slightly to one side as if it’s reconsidering its own structural integrity.
“I thought that bench looked too big for you,” the warrior says. “So I made this.”
I stare at it for a long moment. “You made that forme,”I say slowly.
“Yes,” he beams, clearly pleased with himself.
I give the chair a light push with one finger. It moves and leans, as if agreeing with me that it isn’t particularly committed to the concept of stability.
“I appreciate the effort,” I say carefully. “Is it safe to sit on?”
His expression falters for a moment, offended but trying not to show it. “It’s stable.”
The chair creaks as it leans a fraction further, all by itself.
