Like Hamlet he spoke his soliloquy in silence, his reverence drawn to passage by desperation rather than a devout nature. To be or not to be. For he was but a soldier meant to take the brunt of pain away, a needle to guide and suture the wounds of his people. He was as enigmatic and mutable as a rougarou, prepared to shift into another entity, another figure, for the better of his flock. There were a thousand ways in which to escape, should he ever find the need. Kahlua once had stood at the borders of this world and another, and it had been Kaj who had brought her back. It was the realization that the likelihood of the same being offered to him, regardless of the individual, was horrifyingly low, that had driven the mighty beast both to the shrines and summarily to his knees.

Faith was an enigma, a half-completed puzzle doomed to failure due to hidden, scattered pieces never meant to find their place. Kahlua had said, or rather shouted due to the furious nature of their clashing, that she could never truly turn her back on the gods. Kaj had railed against her, or perhaps it had been the idea that she presented that so brought his stomach turmoil. Years of self-reliance, loneliness and distance from himself and from others had turned the golden king into a creature unwilling and believably unable to put something such as faith in the hands of not only another, but a creature of immortal life and continuous existence.

His knees scraped upon the shale and stone, but in his time of darkness he was granted the serenity that only understanding could truly promise. The two who stood in his presence did not deem to break his spell, allowing him his grievance, his penance and his hopeful salvation. Only when eyes like glass and river shores turned to the maiden in his midst was the atmosphere disbanded. Chased away like ghosts from a holy man, fleeing the light that she exuded, the one she brandished above him. He saw her as a savior, in that moment. A priestess with gowns of white, the stains of blood upon them a sad truth but one that could not be overcome. And a tiny hand, open palmed and waiting. He saw her as a vase, a vessel to the answers he needed so direly. So from the ground he vaulted, though with the slow steady rise of a giant awakened from slumber. Perhaps even indolent, were he in a peaceful enough state for the emotion to be warranted.

She listened with the astute attentiveness that only a wise creature could offer, and a feeling like relief broke as daybreak in his mind. For too often had he been placed beneath the lack of knowledge and ridicule of others, found wanting in their simplistic viewpoints and careless, callous indifference. A desperate man saw angels in vagabonds and demons in acquaintances, and so he saw in her a holy sort of salvation that was perhaps unwarranted. Her potential distress at such an idea only seemed all the more fitting, for an angel was nothing if not humble.

Before she deigns to question him, something which he is far from ready for, she offers instead an answer. Even the idea of a journey, of one that would test him with all the trials life could bring, could not seem to crush what little spirit was left in his mighty form. He had fought all his life. One more battle, especially if it held the possibility of saving him, delivering him from darkness, was worth the effort. "Faith is the only thing I have left, potential though it is," Kaj offered quietly, a confession he was not ashamed to be making before a stranger. "I don't know how to begin to have faith in myself. It seemed so long ago that last I did." Perhaps she would share the secret to that, as well, were she found to be in a forgiving, benevolent mood. Kaj's luck seemed cursed to forever dwindle, but he prayed - another phrase he was unfamiliar with - that it would last long enough for her to see how badly he was in need of her guidance.

"It is your countenance which betrays you," he said softly, hoping to dispel the worry that seemed to cause lines between her brows, ghosts though they were beneath the weight of her self-control. "Your sister and mighty friend both swore themselves to me, as did most of what used to be the Grey. They speak often of you, naturally, considering they are aware of your title. Furthermore, it is essential for a leader to know the names and likenesses of the others," a tiny grin, as if a ghost of old emotions, a habit more than genuine expression. "My name is Kaj. King of the Edge." Perhaps she would know him, too. Or maybe his refusal to leave the Edge leaderless in Kahlua's endless traveling had doomed him to mere mentions. Maybe to her, he was merely a man, hopelessly cracked and searching for devotion.

@[Ophelia]