The weakness we left behind
seems to be getting stronger
Time becomes an ouroboros: seasons twisting in an agonal ring. It is Flowerbirth again; it was Flowerbirth yesterday. Nathaniel haunts the shadows within the temple as if finding the place least likely to house him and then willfully inhabiting it will break the cycle. But even if he cannot see the sun, it shines outside. And even if he pretends it is last year, ten years ago, the wheel only turns in one direction.
Anyway — no one — nothing he hoped to find is here. Nathaniel's heavy footfalls are dull but resounding in the cavernous space. Like a distant pulse; he cannot block it out. There are other footsteps, too. The handful of strangers minding their own business. Moving as if they know where they are going, or pausing to speak to each other, or to pray. Nathaniel has not even begun to think of prayer in a long, long time. He is no longer certain which is worse: to be continually ignored by Caido's gods, or to be answered.
He is too much a coward to test his luck, either way.
So he makes his exit as quietly as he made his entrance this morning. He shuffles past people he may recognize, but doesn't know. He doesn't look people in the eye, these days. Not after the Outlanders started turning the Hollowed Grounds inside out. Not since words like queen and king started bouncing around and Nathaniel realized he had little taste for rebellion or for law. He still hopes, in some foolish denialist part of himself, that time will prove it all out and this attempt at civilizing Caido falls apart for good, and he can go back to… whatever he does.
Right now, what he does is skulk in doorways.
There are people out in front of the temple. Not — just people. Not — just in front. But right there in his way. Worse: Nathaniel recognizes some of them. Much worse: he recognizes them as the sort of people who get their fingers in important things and don't let go.
He stalls.
One of them leaves. The others don't. He really ought to go home and pet his dog. Water his plants. Whatever Nathaniel does when he isn't blocking doorways or thinking too much.
Time grinds forward, inward. The serpent devouring its own tail. He has been in this moment before and he will never be in this moment again. He makes his legs move, long strides swallowing the ground, and then he is behind the boy seated on the steps, and he is looking at Wessex, so briefly. Just a glance, really. A nod.
A 'well, you're still alive' and then he is going to move past them and leave, and avoid returning to the sanctuary at all for several weeks.
Anyway — no one — nothing he hoped to find is here. Nathaniel's heavy footfalls are dull but resounding in the cavernous space. Like a distant pulse; he cannot block it out. There are other footsteps, too. The handful of strangers minding their own business. Moving as if they know where they are going, or pausing to speak to each other, or to pray. Nathaniel has not even begun to think of prayer in a long, long time. He is no longer certain which is worse: to be continually ignored by Caido's gods, or to be answered.
He is too much a coward to test his luck, either way.
So he makes his exit as quietly as he made his entrance this morning. He shuffles past people he may recognize, but doesn't know. He doesn't look people in the eye, these days. Not after the Outlanders started turning the Hollowed Grounds inside out. Not since words like queen and king started bouncing around and Nathaniel realized he had little taste for rebellion or for law. He still hopes, in some foolish denialist part of himself, that time will prove it all out and this attempt at civilizing Caido falls apart for good, and he can go back to… whatever he does.
Right now, what he does is skulk in doorways.
There are people out in front of the temple. Not — just people. Not — just in front. But right there in his way. Worse: Nathaniel recognizes some of them. Much worse: he recognizes them as the sort of people who get their fingers in important things and don't let go.
He stalls.
One of them leaves. The others don't. He really ought to go home and pet his dog. Water his plants. Whatever Nathaniel does when he isn't blocking doorways or thinking too much.
Time grinds forward, inward. The serpent devouring its own tail. He has been in this moment before and he will never be in this moment again. He makes his legs move, long strides swallowing the ground, and then he is behind the boy seated on the steps, and he is looking at Wessex, so briefly. Just a glance, really. A nod.
A 'well, you're still alive' and then he is going to move past them and leave, and avoid returning to the sanctuary at all for several weeks.
