Jude
Thread by thread, I come apart
If brokenness is a work of art, this must be my masterpiece
Jude lingers in the quiet that follows Hadama's certainty, soaking up the feeling that stirs in his chest. It feels a little like hope. Or at least he thinks it does - it's not an emotion he's used to feeling. "Thank you." What else was there to say in the face of such patient kindness? If brokenness is a work of art, this must be my masterpiece
Hope makes way for grief and dread as Hadama shrugs out of his pack. Whatever is next is rather large. Bulky. Yet they hold far less weight on his heart in comparison to the featherlight letter hiding in the envelope in his bag. This is a weight he can carry - a physical thing instead of the crushing burden of a heart.
He hadn't wanted to talk about Harper this entire time. When he'd opened up to Lyra, it had been different. Vitriol, despair, regret, doubt. It feels impossible to lay those notions at Hadama's feet of all people - the one man his father had held above all others. It inspires him to bravery he isn't sure he's capable of. Vulnerability even deeper than what Lyra had pried out of him. Jude brings his hands above the table to place the very edges of his fingertips on the gleaming star on the staff. A sign of faith and alignment that had been passed onto Jude.
"I miss him," he whispers, voice raw and eyes beginning to burn. The hardest thing he's had to say on the matter, and an admission he'd refused himself this entire time.
