Sights

They pass along a gentle incline and turn the corner towards the car-park. There's a white tower-of-sorts here, contrasting garishly with the green metalwork that litters the establishment, and comprise two of the three mismatched colours that contribute to its identity.
He remembers : windswept hair. A slight sobriety on her face, shoulders held, as always, slightly hunched. Eyes bright and twinkling. She's wearing a not-particularly-flattering T-shirt and shorts, and carrying a rather oddly decorated inverted mop. Somewhere, the knights of the round table are rolling in their graves. She looks slightly sad, as they speak briefly, and in his own sadness, he wonders why. silently.

She walks past him on the green-railed stairs, he, heading down, and she, up. They pause for a while and he makes some lame comment about the large, carved staff that she's incongurously carrying. It's apparently a gift. An older, slightly more Anglicised Him laughs in retrospect, and wishes he could have made a wittier joke about "giving you stick, huh". They pass on.

He stops by the rails in the cafeteria. Surely they were taller, once. He distinctly remembers her leaning back against them, but cannot reconcile their lack of height with his memory. She was as tall as, if not slightly taller than himself. He doesn't even attempt to lean against the rails, he'd just fall over backwards. He remembers her eyes, laughing, and almost mocking him as he drifts slowly and dreamily towards her, hand on his sword, all eyes in the canteen upon - her, probably, rather than him.

He steps outside onto the shop floor, back into the mundane everyday battles of life and death that now occupy his waking life, and eclipse the fading memories that still surface from time to time. He doesn't - know - what to feel, anymore.

So he doesn't.