You don't know what I can do.
The words brushed the deep layers of his consciousness, as if very far away, over the distant mountains and straight through the horizon line to worlds away.
Déodat didn't care what she could or could not do.
He didn't care about much of anything anymore, really.
A great weariness overcame him, enveloping him like the heavy layers of steam that curled from his skin and the surface of the hot spring water. He ensued a different tactic this time around, closing his eyes and resting his head on an overhanging ledge while his wild hair spilled over the edge like a snarled black waterfall and floated eerily not the surface like the many tendrils of the deep sea creatures only heard about in stories told be the elders. Perhaps if he could not scare her away with nasty manners he could bore her to death, and in the meantime, take a well-needed nap.
But it seemed this Lena, as she had called herself, was neither feint of heart nor easily deterred once her mind was made up, and it seemed she was simply determined to invade his personal bubble and and ask him incessant questions he'd rather not answer. He opened one eye in a narrow, cat-like slit, watching her movements suspiciously. He did not trust strangers; not even one with so gentle a countenance. Nonetheless, the great red stallion allowed her to draw near (as if he had the strength to prevent it otherwise) without shying away from her closeness and remained quite motionless. A sweet scent suddenly clouded his senses and his eyes drifted to a close as a leaf swirls to the ground in the height of a windswept autumn. He suddenly felt as if he were floating, first lounging in the sweet grasses of a sunny mountain meadow, and then rolling in a field of wildflowers in full bloom, the thrum of bees all around him.
Again, a distant voice reached out to him, gentle and soft, like the cotton that drifted from the heights in late summer. "Déodat," he said at last, his voice a mere sigh, and felt as though the name no longer belonged to him, as if he had been Déodat the General's son in a different lifetime. The name tasted foreign and strange on his tongue—stretched too thin for too long, and left in the sun to bleach and fade from all memory. Though it was not a difficult to question to answer, he struggled to string her words together, pondering and wondering, his head thick and heavy with building pressure. "What does it matter? There is nothing you can do for me."
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