Lost Tales of Kirev

Of a Doubt in the Rainy Season

She met it at the train station. Her long blonde hair was wet and radiant brown from just-passed rain and the tears of someone whose parents forgot that she was on the morning train and not the evening one. Dusk had descended. The mountains glowed from behind.

It cast no shadow. It was one, after all.

It made a sound, like clearing its throat, but forced, as if every sine wave that composed the audio was constructed manually. Because they were.

"Senka."

She looked up with just her eyes. They were terrified, but they had been.

"My name is Atho," it said. It was kneeling before her. Jet black, crystalline, tall, but strangely human.

She remembered her manners and nodded. "Hey. My name's-"

It smiled. "It has been a long day, I know."

"Is it short for something?"

"Hm?"

She sat up more properly, meeting the Shadow's glowing green gaze. "Atho. Is that your whole name?"

"Athocilim," it intoned. Its voice didn't come from its moving mouth, but from deep within.

- -

Senka sat on her bed with a towel and watched Atho survey her books, her stuffed animal collection, her shrines to her favorite video games. It smiled and nodded at a particular dragon-esque creature that bellowed towards the top shelf.

"I must bind to you," it said.

Senka froze. "What does that mean?"

"It is not difficult. It will just take some time." It floated towards her, not fast, not slow, and held out its hand near her shoulder. "May I?"

She leaned back. "What will it do?"

"It will allow me to serve my purpose."

"Which is?"

"To help."

The answer hadn't mattered, anyway. She was desperate. Senka gave Atho a look that it understood, and its hand passed through her shirt and shoulder, touching something vibrant and internal. She felt comfortable bands of tightness slot into place, as if they had always been there. Ankles, thighs, wrists, shoulders, waist, neck, chin, and forehead. But deep inside. Atho hummed.

- -

It followed her up the stairs again. Its foot brushed through a step, and it winced. "Your teacher wants it tomorrow? You are sure?"

"Yep," she crunched. The cereal was left in the back corner of her desk to sog.

She stared at the blank page.

What if it was right? She logged into her class's webpage and stared at the due date on the assignment. Unchanged. But what if her teacher hadn't changed the digital version? She vaguely remembered an announcement that the due date would be extended. It seemed like Atho did too. But to when? What if she forgot to do it tomorrow, the day it was probably actually required? What if the due date changed again? What if the day came, and she logged into class, and everyone else had finished it, and-

Atho's hand made contact with the skin of her shoulder, its long, needle-sharp fingers curling down her chest. She jolted to, losing sight of the nightmare and relishing the deep, smooth cold that counteracted her sweat under too many layers of clothing.