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⊰❀⊱ "Too tall...?"

Up and down, up and down, it looks the Vessalius up and down with a sluggish yet interested gaze. 

"But, Jack was just standing... Cirier does not understand what Jack could be too tall for." (A beat. One can practically see the wheels turning within that little head. A tiny glint in those bright eyes.) "...Is Jack afraid he will bump his head on the clouds? Jack does not have to worry... Jack is too short..."

Cirier cants its head to the side, lips parting just so when he suggests an action it does not recognize. Or is it a thing? The blonde wishes the doll to give him something, but a quick inspection of front apron pockets (which, in truth, amounts to little beyond patting the pouches) reminds Cirier that it carries nothing beyond its book--

"...This one does not have a hug, Jack..."

⊰♔⊱ Is Cirier… smiling?

For a moment, Jack debates laughing aloud with glee; the sensation he’s feeling is tantamount to victory. Finally, he’s gotten his sweet little friend—who seems so very unselfish and caring, who did not judge him when he wept so unglamorously the day prior—to smile, even if it’s just a bit.

“Because if I stood, I’d be a mite too tall, wouldn’t I?" (A soft laugh.) “If you know what a hug is… come give me one, hm?"

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I will follow you to the ends of the world.

Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns (via larmoyante)

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⊰♔⊱ Jack pauses for a moment—and then breaks into an absolutely radiant smile. He’s quick to take a knee and hold out his arms for a hug, hoping his little companion will understand.

“Of course you can!" he chirps happily. “I would very much like to be yours, my friend."

⊰❀⊱ Is that a flicker of a smile tugging at its lips?

Oh, but another puzzle presents itself! Though toddling forward, heaving the weighty tome beneath one tiny arm, Cirier pauses before Jack and studies his unfamiliar posture.

"Jack is on the ground..."

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⊰❀⊱ Even as Cirier mindlessly wipes at Jack's cheeks, chin, and nose with its now soiled apron, it never ceases ruminating upon what these little droplets could mean. Sadness it knows, and the hands that sculpted the blonde's features could belong only to Sorrow.

(Does the sky rain when its sees flowers, as well? And wherefore? Because it be happy to know they live? Or doleful to know they will, inevitably, wilt away into nothingness? Can one even justify the tears of the heavens?)

Perhaps this mystery serves as an answer to the countless riddles in Cirier's heavy tome.

"This one wonders... if this is because Jack needs a fairy?"

Is the softening in those glassy eyes naught but a trick of the waning light?

"This one is broken, too. Cirier does not mean to be this way, either... but raining is not bad... it brings flowers... so... for Jack, too..."

⊰♔⊱ He must look absolutely ridiculous, sitting here with tears leaking out of his eyes like a faucet that’s gone and broken at the most inconvenient of times. For a moment, Jack looks almost stupefied, as though he can’t believe he’s actually making such a public display; he tries to laugh it off, but weak giggles soon morph into hitching breaths and then quiet sobs.

(And then coughing—that’s the most frightening part of all. He can taste the blood in his mouth.)

"I’m really glad you like them—"

Not surprisingly, Jack consents to having his tears wiped without so much as a peep of complaint, though, with the way the set of his lips wobbles, it seems this small act of affection is enough to set him to crying again.

“I… don’t mean to be like this—" a gesture, "—but I… can’t help it… something’s very wrong."

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⊰❀⊱ Like disappointment, Cirier recognizes this expression of Jack's, too.

Too-short endless days were filled with that look, of 'passed over.' Laying in the corner, hoping for the strength to flow into leaden limbs to right itself, to prove that I am not useless, I am not a failure, I am I am iamiamiam -- could that be called a childhood? To watch the Maker turn his or her attentions elsewhere, to tinker and toy with another brother or sister and make them whole, make them real, shower them with affections and smiles.

Difference gathers dust against the wall; who holds up who?

Gentle words form no question, and Cirier is free to incline its head forward with a slow motion.

"...Yes..."

Tiny, cold fingers reach up, tangled in the apron, and rub at the other's cheeks.

"Jack has cloudy eyes today. They rain..."

⊰♔⊱ Jack is very silent for what feels like ages, watching Cirier with an almost detached look in his eyes, as though he’s less keen on observing the creature, and more intent upon staring straight through him, at something else entirely.

(He doesn’t mean to look that way; he can’t help it. Reflexively, his fingers tighten in the fabric of his trousers, until he’s visibly white-knuckled.)

Though, his breath does catch when he sees his companion’s offering. Hand shaking ever so slightly, Jack reaches out, and takes the battered tiger lilies.

"So you… really do like them, then…."

For seemingly no reason at all—or perhaps for more reasons than even he knows—Jack’s head pitches forward, and, flowers still in hand, he begins to softly cry—

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⊰❀⊱ "No, Jack."

A quiet rustling. The doll breaks its moment of stillness by rooting into the front pockets of its apron, and when it draws its hand free, Cirier grasps a fistful of tiger lilies.

Bent petals, broken stems, looking a little worse for wear.

It holds them out.

⊰♔⊱ Hangs around.

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⊰❀⊱ Stares impassively.

⊰♔⊱ Hangs around.

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⊰❀⊱ Jack's smile is melting. Somewhere in the dusty recesses of its "mind," in those uneven grooves and gaps between gears, 'frown' surfaces.

It has felt sadness before. So this is what it looks like.

That crestfallen droop is not lost on Cirier, and when invisible fingers hook themselves in the corners of the other's mouth, the clockwork creation realizes immediately that it has failed in some way to meet expectation.

Disappointment tarnishes its inner workings, eats away at cogs and gizmos and settles in with reddish stain. To now recognize it in a living, breathing, beautiful human comes naturally.

Irony abounds.

"This one has met one before -- the day this one woke up." Blink. Smooth fingerpads devoid of prints brush over a discolored page. "When Cirier stops running, you can have this one's fairy."

The brittle paper rustles in the doll's grasp, disrupting a tentative quiet following Jack's last question. That mental dissonance is at work once again, one that manifests itself in a strange delay and--

"No."

--an outright lie.

Cirier pauses a moment longer, and brows twitch towards each other. It tries again.

"No."

How strained and stressed that reply sounds when it tumbles from the creation's mouth, and, already perceiving a reprimand or unfavorable response in return, its face contorts pathetically in premature apology.

⊰♔⊱ By the time Jack catches up with the other (though his curious companion isn’t traveling fast—or even at all, really, so caught up is it in its study of vetches and forget-me-nots and tiger lilies, Jack’s very favorite), he’s completely out of breath and practically doubled-over, but the look on his face is one of perceived victory, and he lets out a few breathy giggles. This is a moment he’s entertained since his boyhood; his fairytales have always been such a blessed distraction for him, even in his darkest hours, and to actually meet one before the end—implausible as it may seem—would be a dream come true….

But his happy look is not long-lived, because when the little creature turns to him, it becomes quite clear to Jack from its flat expression that it is not a fairy—or, at the very least, not one of those benevolent ones he’s spent so many hours daydreaming about meeting.

“Oh," he murmurs, his face falling only slightly before he manages to smile again, settling in the grass across from his newfound companion. “So you’re… not a fairy?—Ah, but that’s okay. I… can tell you’re really different, aren’t you?" (Its voice alone is indication enough.) “Anyway. You… your name is… Cirier? I’m Jack." (Pause.) “That flower there—" pointing, "—it’s a tiger lily. Do you like it?"

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⊰♔⊱ Jack does notice.

At first, through the veil of sleep, he can’t quite puzzle out what this curious creature is, or why it’s toddling around (adorably) through his beloved flower garden—usually no one else comes out here! And he dismisses it as a figment of his imagination—until he hears the fumbling and sees it staring straight at him—and then he comes to a conclusion that only he could ever come to.

—It’s a fairy. A real live fairy, and it’s come for him. Could he really be so lucky—?

(Maybe it will grant him his wish….)

Sleepiness forgotten, Jack springs from his perch and gives chase, a bright smile crossing his face, even if he’s out of breath within a few moments. “Hey," he cries out, "—wait! Are you a fairy? Please, wait for me—!"

⊰❀⊱ Whoever (or perhaps whatever) the miniature entity may prove to be, it appears stubbornly bent upon thoroughly examining the contents of the landscape. Each and every blossom is meticulously inspected, and delicate fingers cannot help but tug and caress in silent tactile exploration. The tiny individual promptly plops down amidst all the yet unknown and impossibly colorful array of flowers and pulls an oversized tome into its lap.

So caught up in its study (one might be, after all, loathe to insinuate 'intellectual pursuits' as a viable explanation) is the 'fairy' that it does not anticipate or acknowledge Jack's approach until addressed directly. With a blank expression, it lifts its head and regards him with an eerily empty look.

"Cirier is Cirier," it states in a comically matter-of-fact tone, and the quality of its voice is peculiar to say the least. When it speaks, its words seem almost to creak with a metallic sway, and riddling out man or woman seems entirely hopeless.

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⊰❀⊱ Birthday, birthday--

Ze sets down zirs weighty tome and thumbs through it for the unknown term...

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