[Liem's weeks in Zenith have been spent alternatingly between despairing contemplation and, more and more, work in Alenroux. Despite the resolution he thought he had already come to, to bring Abadar to Zenith's new world to shape and shepherd it, his free hours are filled increasingly with the same whirl of thoughts that had swept him up beneath the Tree of Life, in the Oracle's cavern. He mourns for the world he's left behind, wonders at its fate, wonders if abandoning it is kindness or cruelty. He thinks of the people he knows who had chosen to abandon Meridian for Zenith's darkness — and the people who still remain, now separate from and at odds with him.
These thoughts chase him day and night, until he can scarcely sleep and work is the only respite available to him. During Alenroux's days, he assists the farmers with their work and oversees the final efforts on the test home (Hayame's home…) near the edge of the forest. At night, he disappears into the woods to hunt whatever monsters end up within range of his bow.
Yet despite this, his beard has not yet made a reappearance. In fact, he bears no signs of work or weariness at all; his face is unlined and his eyes unshadowed, his posture straight, his hair coiffed, his clothes spotless and free of wrinkles. He is spectacularly without flaw, suspiciously so—
Except.
Except for the cracks — literal, hairline fractures — in his facade, spiderwebbing over marble skin, over his face and hands and throat, over the unyielding, sculpted shape of his perfect hair, over the pristine planes of his coat and gloves. (He doesn't need to worry about the heat, though summer is fast approaching. Beneath the stony barrier of his clothing, his shard is colder than ice.) Here and there, a fragile extremity has snapped and worn away completely: the tip of an ear, some of the detail of his hair, a piece of nose, a lapel, a button, a fingertip. And all over his body, the colour seems to have weathered and leeched away from him; not just his clothes, but the brown of his hair and even the startling black of his eyes. He exists in off-whites and pastels, looking exquisite and ready to crumble to dust at even the gentlest blow.
But of course, he does not; not yet. There is a reason that he cannot die yet, even if he isn't sure anymore what it is. He is reduced to the motions of his work, to fixing fences and organizing supplies and cataloguing damages and hunting down threats; reduced to working toward the mission, without remembering why. It is not an instrument's place to wonder anyway, or even to understand. He only needs to
for Hayame — a desperate need
These thoughts chase him day and night, until he can scarcely sleep and work is the only respite available to him. During Alenroux's days, he assists the farmers with their work and oversees the final efforts on the test home (Hayame's home…) near the edge of the forest. At night, he disappears into the woods to hunt whatever monsters end up within range of his bow.
Yet despite this, his beard has not yet made a reappearance. In fact, he bears no signs of work or weariness at all; his face is unlined and his eyes unshadowed, his posture straight, his hair coiffed, his clothes spotless and free of wrinkles. He is spectacularly without flaw, suspiciously so—
Except.
Except for the cracks — literal, hairline fractures — in his facade, spiderwebbing over marble skin, over his face and hands and throat, over the unyielding, sculpted shape of his perfect hair, over the pristine planes of his coat and gloves. (He doesn't need to worry about the heat, though summer is fast approaching. Beneath the stony barrier of his clothing, his shard is colder than ice.) Here and there, a fragile extremity has snapped and worn away completely: the tip of an ear, some of the detail of his hair, a piece of nose, a lapel, a button, a fingertip. And all over his body, the colour seems to have weathered and leeched away from him; not just his clothes, but the brown of his hair and even the startling black of his eyes. He exists in off-whites and pastels, looking exquisite and ready to crumble to dust at even the gentlest blow.
But of course, he does not; not yet. There is a reason that he cannot die yet, even if he isn't sure anymore what it is. He is reduced to the motions of his work, to fixing fences and organizing supplies and cataloguing damages and hunting down threats; reduced to working toward the mission, without remembering why. It is not an instrument's place to wonder anyway, or even to understand. He only needs to
keep
moving.]