Aim your arrow at the sky
SHOOT LIGHTNING THROUGH THE VITAL VEINS
SHOOT LIGHTNING THROUGH THE VITAL VEINS
Jude's eyes are drawn inexorably to the steady pattern of Zavien's hand rubbing on the man's sternum. His father's voice whispers old lessons of shock and stimulation, and Jude's hand where it's braced across the man's back taps idly across his spine in unintentional harmony with the speed of Zavien's hand.
The man's voice is equally enrapturing. Jude can scarcely watch his own feet for how it pulls him in, painting a story so simple and vivid, humanizing sections and corners of this neighborhood that Jude had never questioned or lingered on. The brightness of the lanterns and Zavien's laughter alike makes his chest squirm. Knowing they are so close to their goal makes him hopeful - a feeling that shudders and dies with the sorrowful ending to a story he'd never taken part in, but which feels freshly tragic all the same. Every city has its underbelly. Torchline is notorious for its piracy and smuggling, and Jude was born on those very sands, could tell ten stories just like this one if only he had operation of his tongue. Still, it hurts to hear. It feels cruel in that meaningless, vain way that makes you want to rage at the world for being so indiscriminate with its cruelty.
The words he ends with aren't meant for Jude. They're not, but gods if they don't feel like it. Jude's feet stumble gracelessly, and he cannot even blame it on the uneven paving or jutting cobblestone. Not when his chest is so tight that his breath shudders and his eyes burn. It shouldn't be this easy to tear him apart, like paper left out in the rain. Words meant for an injured man on the heels of a sad story shouldn't feel so meant for him, as if he's a seer who came across Jude and the victim by something more than chance.
If his breath is still shaky when they make it to the doorstep, he can excuse it under the guise of exertion. They are loud and sloppy with their approach given how many pairs of legs are at play, and a shrewd-eyed doctor emerges before they are properly through the entrance. Her eyes go straight to the man between them, and she turns over her shoulder to call for what Jude presumes are assistants. Another woman and a man come out from another room, and Jude hands over his charge when gestured to drop the man's arm. "What happened? Did either of you witness the attack?" Jude waves a hand to catch her attention, and then quickly sets about scribbling bullet points in his journal to show to her; he'd come just after the attack, but he'd seen a few wounds, and no weapons greater than knives on the attackers. The man with him had helped, but no they were not friends or family, and could not help with tracking them down. "Very well. There is nothing more you can do. Leave your names if you'd like, I will give them to him when he wakes."
Satisfied, she sends them on their way brusquely. There was not even a proper waiting room, and Jude flounders, wishing he could stay and see how the man fared but finding himself back outside within moments with the true hero at his side. Blinking in the early sunrise, Jude fumbles with his journal and scribbles in it before presenting it to Zavien. Thank you. I'm from Torchline - I couldn't have helped much without you. He bites his lip, hesitating, before penning in an additional line and turning it back to Zavien. He can't repay you, but is there anything I can do in his place? Extending favors is a dangerous path, and there is nothing forcing his hand, but his words and general demeanor stick with Jude like a rock in his chest. He has to try.
The man's voice is equally enrapturing. Jude can scarcely watch his own feet for how it pulls him in, painting a story so simple and vivid, humanizing sections and corners of this neighborhood that Jude had never questioned or lingered on. The brightness of the lanterns and Zavien's laughter alike makes his chest squirm. Knowing they are so close to their goal makes him hopeful - a feeling that shudders and dies with the sorrowful ending to a story he'd never taken part in, but which feels freshly tragic all the same. Every city has its underbelly. Torchline is notorious for its piracy and smuggling, and Jude was born on those very sands, could tell ten stories just like this one if only he had operation of his tongue. Still, it hurts to hear. It feels cruel in that meaningless, vain way that makes you want to rage at the world for being so indiscriminate with its cruelty.
The words he ends with aren't meant for Jude. They're not, but gods if they don't feel like it. Jude's feet stumble gracelessly, and he cannot even blame it on the uneven paving or jutting cobblestone. Not when his chest is so tight that his breath shudders and his eyes burn. It shouldn't be this easy to tear him apart, like paper left out in the rain. Words meant for an injured man on the heels of a sad story shouldn't feel so meant for him, as if he's a seer who came across Jude and the victim by something more than chance.
If his breath is still shaky when they make it to the doorstep, he can excuse it under the guise of exertion. They are loud and sloppy with their approach given how many pairs of legs are at play, and a shrewd-eyed doctor emerges before they are properly through the entrance. Her eyes go straight to the man between them, and she turns over her shoulder to call for what Jude presumes are assistants. Another woman and a man come out from another room, and Jude hands over his charge when gestured to drop the man's arm. "What happened? Did either of you witness the attack?" Jude waves a hand to catch her attention, and then quickly sets about scribbling bullet points in his journal to show to her; he'd come just after the attack, but he'd seen a few wounds, and no weapons greater than knives on the attackers. The man with him had helped, but no they were not friends or family, and could not help with tracking them down. "Very well. There is nothing more you can do. Leave your names if you'd like, I will give them to him when he wakes."
Satisfied, she sends them on their way brusquely. There was not even a proper waiting room, and Jude flounders, wishing he could stay and see how the man fared but finding himself back outside within moments with the true hero at his side. Blinking in the early sunrise, Jude fumbles with his journal and scribbles in it before presenting it to Zavien. Thank you. I'm from Torchline - I couldn't have helped much without you. He bites his lip, hesitating, before penning in an additional line and turning it back to Zavien. He can't repay you, but is there anything I can do in his place? Extending favors is a dangerous path, and there is nothing forcing his hand, but his words and general demeanor stick with Jude like a rock in his chest. He has to try.
THEY THINK THAT YOU EMIT THE LIGHT
But you only take it in
But you only take it in
