wayward hum, storm & will
Jul 23, 2022 17:15:04 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jul 23, 2022 17:15:04 GMT -5
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The dragon died to Charlie's spear and it's the second time he's saved them from mutts, quick-handed and soft spoken, laughing at Will's words. "That's the thing with you upper district folk, man. Sometimes it’s better to work together than separate. Sometimes it takes a village."
He smiles, twisting the stems of coneflowers on his hands.
Charlie is a good person.
He does not doubt that.
In a few feet, the trees of the forest clear to a print of gold laid down by the thumb of a giant, a glade washed with sunlight and yellow flowers. He wades into it, tall grasses blown in the wind like tides. And Nehalennia ripples in the light, flecks of amber on his skin. There's the steady rise and fall of her breath, there's the sound of life moving through her, wings spraying the sun like dew and white foam.
And if he just sits here, he could imagine his father's hand on his shoulder. He'd turn and see him standing in the garden, eyes so much like his own. Schatje, he'd say, and Will would always think he was getting too old for that.
He misses his family.
And he doesn't at the same time.
Nehalennia stretches out her neck suddenly, poised towards something in the distance. The bushes rustle, a streak of red from a flying cardinal like a warning. His hand goes to his sword.
A foot, an arm, a whole person materializes from the leaves.
He's already unsheathed his blade before he even realizes it.
He stares at the boy, all lanky limbs and blood, the silver of the sword extended between them, and the light shifts, shadows of umber turning indigo.
He draws in a sharp breath.
"Hi."
Storm and a word, honking by his side.
It feels like so long ago, the time in the training center, at the edge of those perfect pools of aqua, teaching him how to swim. He'd held him up with two hands on his back as Storm tried to float, sinking again and again and all Will could do was laugh.
He needed the ocean, he remembers thinking, sweet breeze and burning salt. He needed the rocking shore and the gulls and the sand sticking to his skin, because that's how all kids learned to swim in Four.
And now this is very different.
Four days in, and he's painted a different layer of himself, grip on the hilt so hard his arm hurts. There is no ocean here – he watched Lux die on the bank of the river, watched blood soak into the earth and the soil hunger for bodies, mourned a limb, mourned a girl, and he forgets what it was even like to be himself.
And then, very stupidly, he drops his sword.
"I'm not going to fight you."
Like he could hold on to one last remnant of life before.
He takes a few steps forward, Storm in hues of red, and it’s very jarring, features soft with youth, sharpened by the blood running down the side of his face. Will inches a little closer.
"What happened?"
He smiles, twisting the stems of coneflowers on his hands.
Charlie is a good person.
He does not doubt that.
In a few feet, the trees of the forest clear to a print of gold laid down by the thumb of a giant, a glade washed with sunlight and yellow flowers. He wades into it, tall grasses blown in the wind like tides. And Nehalennia ripples in the light, flecks of amber on his skin. There's the steady rise and fall of her breath, there's the sound of life moving through her, wings spraying the sun like dew and white foam.
And if he just sits here, he could imagine his father's hand on his shoulder. He'd turn and see him standing in the garden, eyes so much like his own. Schatje, he'd say, and Will would always think he was getting too old for that.
He misses his family.
And he doesn't at the same time.
Nehalennia stretches out her neck suddenly, poised towards something in the distance. The bushes rustle, a streak of red from a flying cardinal like a warning. His hand goes to his sword.
A foot, an arm, a whole person materializes from the leaves.
He's already unsheathed his blade before he even realizes it.
He stares at the boy, all lanky limbs and blood, the silver of the sword extended between them, and the light shifts, shadows of umber turning indigo.
He draws in a sharp breath.
"Hi."
Storm and a word, honking by his side.
It feels like so long ago, the time in the training center, at the edge of those perfect pools of aqua, teaching him how to swim. He'd held him up with two hands on his back as Storm tried to float, sinking again and again and all Will could do was laugh.
He needed the ocean, he remembers thinking, sweet breeze and burning salt. He needed the rocking shore and the gulls and the sand sticking to his skin, because that's how all kids learned to swim in Four.
And now this is very different.
Four days in, and he's painted a different layer of himself, grip on the hilt so hard his arm hurts. There is no ocean here – he watched Lux die on the bank of the river, watched blood soak into the earth and the soil hunger for bodies, mourned a limb, mourned a girl, and he forgets what it was even like to be himself.
And then, very stupidly, he drops his sword.
"I'm not going to fight you."
Like he could hold on to one last remnant of life before.
He takes a few steps forward, Storm in hues of red, and it’s very jarring, features soft with youth, sharpened by the blood running down the side of his face. Will inches a little closer.
"What happened?"
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