Nate !
A sad time. Contender for Understatement of the Year, that one. “Some people never learn.” Nathaniel shakes his head, the disapproval obvious in his tone. No one with sense goes outdoors on Longnight. Hiding indoors is dangerous enough. Some Outlanders learn too late, but some Naturals, too, risk their necks for no reason. Nathaniel’s own doors had been securely locked the whole week.
“I heard about the Spark Bird,” he adds. He has seen the perch, too, the scorch marks left behind by blazing feathers. The ambivalent roil of something he feels about that subject never makes it into his voice. “You’re lucky. It doesn’t visit very often.” Maybe, if he had looked out the right window, Nathaniel would have seen the glow. But faintly. His cabin is too far out. The bird’s arrival gave him nothing.
He sighs then, and turns his attention toward the house. He still isn’t sure he wants the Outlander in there. Not exactly because he keeps valuables, or because it’s cluttered, or even because there are certainly weapons inside. But the space is his, and he cannot remember the last time he invited anyone inside the walls. He strides toward the cabin anyway, caught between anxiety and stubbornness. He won’t tell her to leave if it makes him look afraid. He won’t admit he’s afraid of some tiny Outlander. And it isn’t fear, anyway, it’s just — fucking Outlanders.
“Uneventful,” he calls over his shoulder. “The way I like it.” He takes the porch steps in two bounds and glances over his shoulder at her. “You really don’t have to help, you know. If you’ve got…” he waves a hand at the fields, “foraging to do, don’t let me keep you.” He ducks inside after that, hoping if he gives her no time to answer, she’ll realize they’re both better off if she leaves, and go continue her day without him. If she is still around when he reemerges, a thick fur rug grasped in one hand and a woven mat in the other, he supposes he can tolerate letting her beat the dust out of them on the porch.
Though he can’t fathom why she might want to.
“I heard about the Spark Bird,” he adds. He has seen the perch, too, the scorch marks left behind by blazing feathers. The ambivalent roil of something he feels about that subject never makes it into his voice. “You’re lucky. It doesn’t visit very often.” Maybe, if he had looked out the right window, Nathaniel would have seen the glow. But faintly. His cabin is too far out. The bird’s arrival gave him nothing.
He sighs then, and turns his attention toward the house. He still isn’t sure he wants the Outlander in there. Not exactly because he keeps valuables, or because it’s cluttered, or even because there are certainly weapons inside. But the space is his, and he cannot remember the last time he invited anyone inside the walls. He strides toward the cabin anyway, caught between anxiety and stubbornness. He won’t tell her to leave if it makes him look afraid. He won’t admit he’s afraid of some tiny Outlander. And it isn’t fear, anyway, it’s just — fucking Outlanders.
“Uneventful,” he calls over his shoulder. “The way I like it.” He takes the porch steps in two bounds and glances over his shoulder at her. “You really don’t have to help, you know. If you’ve got…” he waves a hand at the fields, “foraging to do, don’t let me keep you.” He ducks inside after that, hoping if he gives her no time to answer, she’ll realize they’re both better off if she leaves, and go continue her day without him. If she is still around when he reemerges, a thick fur rug grasped in one hand and a woven mat in the other, he supposes he can tolerate letting her beat the dust out of them on the porch.
Though he can’t fathom why she might want to.
