I

He’d been born with a knack for survival.

When he was young, he hadn’t thought about it, for his sister had the same knack. At least, he supposed she was his sister, and she never said otherwise. They had the same look about them, the same build, and those who met them always referred to them as siblings. In the end, it didn’t matter if they had the same parents. He was Réo, she was Tarn, and together they were wanderers, survivors.

Until the day they reached Alos on the Hill, and her survival called her to the beaches beyond, and his down the road past.

“I need the lantern,” Tarn said mildly, as they ate the last of the stewed goat. “The tallow and wicks, too.”

“What, no sun where you are going?” Réo replied, though he wasn’t surprised when her only response was a vague smile. Survival rarely explained why anything was necessary, just that it was, or was not. “I need the coat from Red Torlin.”

Only speaking when one survival or the other demanded a specific item, they divided their possessions with little fuss. Then they stood, Réo donning the too-large coat, Tarn adjusting the many pouches on her belt, and faced each other.

“Remember me, Réo.” With her short-cropped hair wavering in the sunlight; her patched and worn clothing, which seemed to have gained a brilliance from their surroundings; her lantern hanging from its pole and her horsehair belt, she looked almost like one of the Trail Queen’s servants. He smiled faintly at the idea.

 “I will.”

They touched hands, fingers splayed, silent for a moment. And then they turned and went their separate ways, Réo down the road, Tarn to the beaches beyond Alos on the Hill.

He did not expect to see her again.

What, they never told you there would be days like today? They told me.

Oh, don't look at me like that. It's not my fault they didn't, and you probably should have figured it out on your own by now. How old are--no, that look will not work on me, so don't bother trying. It might have worked on them, but they aren't around and you never thought to ask; I asked, but I don't have a reason to care about whatever look you might try on me.

You're going to sigh all day? That'll get aggravating quickly. No, I'm not telling you. You'll find the sighing more annoying than I soon enough, and then I can get back to my book.

... Touché. I can't continue if you've taken it.

So? Why are there days like today? It's part of the ineff-- Oh, fine, what did you want to know about it? 

Are you serious? I can't remember it verbatim. Well, I can. But why would I repeat it? My version is far better, in any case. 

Ah, I knew there was a reason I kept you around. If nothing else, you have good taste. Fine; but once I'm done you have to leave me alone.

There will always be days like today, not because anyone cares enough to make sure there will be days of this sort, not because there was any sort of plan, but because there will always be days like today, and that is how it has always been. The sort of day where your senses simply give up trying to interpret the world and leave you with a monosanous, monolerous, monochrome perception of the world. And you'll hate it, and struggle through it like a defiant lemming attempting to retreat, until the day finally overwhelms you and drags you along to hurl you over the cliff into a new day. Then, in sea spray and cold, your senses rally and carry on protecting you from days and reality.

There are other days, though, and they will always exist, too. Days where shapes relax their lines, having escaped Euclid's near-eternal vigilance for a moment, and transcend language and knowledge; where you think, if you can just figure out the pattern, you could understand the susurration of leaves and grass and that open secret they've been keeping for so long; where you can find that sliver of waking dream between the shadow and the sun and the world is clear as glass.

There are days where you feel like you're drowning in honey, and days that taste crisp and clean as ice. There are days dank and stinking of marsh-gas, and days sweltering and thick with the reek of rotting flowers. Some days slip through your fingers like grains of sand, while some simply vanish like an unattended thought; others follow like a patient dog before curling up to sleep and yet others cling like burrs to flannel. 

You can't pick which you'd like, though some lie and say it's up to you which day you have. If they have a pattern, I've yet to notice it, but you can often tell which it will be in the morning. They have a certain feel to them, you'll notice, if you haven't already. And it's easier to deal with a monosensory world when you know it's only that day, and the next day might very well be hexasensory, for all you know.

Does that answer your question? Good. Now let me get back to reading.

* The phrase "ineffable plan" belongs to Messrs. Pratchett and Gaiman.

(This came out of nowhere. And damn, I feel good.)

Flipping through Watership down yesterday got me this quote:

He said, 'Dance for me' and he said
'You are too beautiful for the wind
To pick at, or the sun to burn.' He said
'I'm a poor tattered thing, but not unkind
To the sad dancer and the dancing dead.'

-- Four Postures of Death, Sidney Keys

Wrote a scribble to go with it. Probably in the same sort of mini-world as this was.