featherweight, will & lux
Jul 1, 2022 15:08:43 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jul 1, 2022 15:08:43 GMT -5
The sun's in a different place in the sky when he wakes up, gold and high in the west, and years of seafaring had taught him how to read indications of time between the clouds. The ships on their docks would be fitted with brass and copper sundials, and he was taught how to adjust the gnomon to local latitude, shadows aligned with a compass – all the things he’d learned since he had been old enough to stand on a hull.
His hand goes to his pocket. Vincent’s compass is a soft weight that reminds him of home, and he grasps the cool metal briefly.
Sitting up, Will touches the length of stitches on his back, feeling the little pink ridges dip and rise from his skin through his shirt. It stings, but he keeps his hand there for a moment, a lump forming in his throat.
Everyone else is gone, but Lux is there, buried in her sketchbook that's propped on her knees.
"Hi," he says. His throat feels dry. The sound is harsh in the silence.
He brushes the hair from his eyes, putting a palm to his forehead, and the dizziness has stopped now. All the surroundings come into focus. And now he can see the smoke of the tavern in the distance, rising high above the trees, twisting and turning towards the clouds. The earth smells like foliage after rain, the sun hazy in the fog.
He scoots up to sit in front of her, and then notices the way Lux is holding her left arm, cradled to her chest. He reaches for her hand carefully. "Can I see your arm?"
For years, he'd watch his mother tend to the wounds of his sisters and cousins, setting fractures and stemming blood before they could go to the infirmary. It's memory buried in muscle and sinew, how she fixed every bone he's ever broken, every stitch he's ever needed. The radius juts out slightly from Lux's arm, swollen, bent a few milimetres off center. A bruise begins in shades of lavender. Will stands up, snaps two sticks of the same length from a tree.
Then, he sits back down, holding it to her arm, wrapping bandages from the medkit in the capsule around the makeshift splint. From his robes, he tears a square, the fabric soft and plush, and folds it into a triangle, slips one end under her arm, and ties it at her shoulder as carefully as he can.
Something sinks inside him, a knot of an ugly feeling that's as big as an organ, bleeding between his breaths. And he knows they stopped because of him. And he knows he is not like them.
He glances up from his hands to Lux, for just a moment, as he knots the fabric together. "Sorry."
It's soft when he says it. And he feels nine again, cheeks burning with the knowledge that he would never be as good as his name.
Will looks away, gaze catching on the sketchbook in the grass. He touches the spine, but doesn't flip it over.
"What's this?"
His hand goes to his pocket. Vincent’s compass is a soft weight that reminds him of home, and he grasps the cool metal briefly.
Sitting up, Will touches the length of stitches on his back, feeling the little pink ridges dip and rise from his skin through his shirt. It stings, but he keeps his hand there for a moment, a lump forming in his throat.
Everyone else is gone, but Lux is there, buried in her sketchbook that's propped on her knees.
"Hi," he says. His throat feels dry. The sound is harsh in the silence.
He brushes the hair from his eyes, putting a palm to his forehead, and the dizziness has stopped now. All the surroundings come into focus. And now he can see the smoke of the tavern in the distance, rising high above the trees, twisting and turning towards the clouds. The earth smells like foliage after rain, the sun hazy in the fog.
He scoots up to sit in front of her, and then notices the way Lux is holding her left arm, cradled to her chest. He reaches for her hand carefully. "Can I see your arm?"
For years, he'd watch his mother tend to the wounds of his sisters and cousins, setting fractures and stemming blood before they could go to the infirmary. It's memory buried in muscle and sinew, how she fixed every bone he's ever broken, every stitch he's ever needed. The radius juts out slightly from Lux's arm, swollen, bent a few milimetres off center. A bruise begins in shades of lavender. Will stands up, snaps two sticks of the same length from a tree.
Then, he sits back down, holding it to her arm, wrapping bandages from the medkit in the capsule around the makeshift splint. From his robes, he tears a square, the fabric soft and plush, and folds it into a triangle, slips one end under her arm, and ties it at her shoulder as carefully as he can.
Something sinks inside him, a knot of an ugly feeling that's as big as an organ, bleeding between his breaths. And he knows they stopped because of him. And he knows he is not like them.
He glances up from his hands to Lux, for just a moment, as he knots the fabric together. "Sorry."
It's soft when he says it. And he feels nine again, cheeks burning with the knowledge that he would never be as good as his name.
Will looks away, gaze catching on the sketchbook in the grass. He touches the spine, but doesn't flip it over.
"What's this?"
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