That day it seemed that the blueness of the notes that hit the sky were of such intensity that it would be forever before the boy would find her again. Sunk into the depth of his inner wonderment, he took up the rock, balanced it lightly in his hand, although its weight made this seem unlikely, and motioned as to throw it into that azure firmament. The rock would have none of it. As though clinging against his skin as a frightened frog might before taking the leap that it is destined to make, the sharpness of its flinty flakes pressed into his flesh. His hand hesitated, against the willingness of his soul. The boy understood one thing; his was the only way to penetrate the deepening dusk, to prise apart the cloak that veiled her against the eyes of any human. Purpose and intent were everything, or so he had believed.

Now it appeared to him that the final force upon which his whole being rested depended on that unwilling rock and the hand that held it. His eyelids clicked shut. The voice whispered, loudly as ever a whisper can be heard as a whisper. Her voice. Distant and close; firm and frail; haunting and solid. As a rock. “I am here. Find me not. I am there.” The rock shattered, splintering, the shards slicing into his hand, his fingers. A moment, before he felt the pain.

Another moment and the warm ooze of his blood trickled down into his wrist as he held up his hand to his face before stretching his eyebrows in a vain attempt to squint through the lashes. What he saw was the back of his eyelids. And her. He had shed his blood to see her inside of himself.

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