sons could be birds,
taken broken up to the mountain
taken broken up to the mountain
An imminent sense of unraveling: Nathaniel goes through familiar motions, but he feels as if he is watching himself through a window. As if his body is some separate phenomenon, dedicated to a pantomime of normalcy. Maybe he has been too far away from other people for too long. Fear of violence, or fear of change, drove him out of the most populated areas some time ago. But now another Long Night is past, and his chickens are gone, and he is hungry. Hungry in a way he hasn't known — maybe ever. His clothes hang off him looser than before, and his face is an amalgamation of sharp planes all intersecting at strange angles. Dark eyes sunken, more shadowed than usual. He looks exhausted because he is. Seeing the world but not really part of it.
Maybe this is the natural result of some flaw in Nathaniel's personality — unavoidable, predetermined. But it makes some things strangely easier. He can stride into the settlement without really caring about who sees him, can haggle without the strange pricklings of guilt he used to get. He doesn't have much left to trade, though, anymore. He ought to go out and check the trap lines and set new ones, but he hasn't gotten around to that, yet.
At this moment, all he really cares about is the apple in his right hand, and the small satchel thrown carelessly over his opposite shoulder. Has an apple ever tasted so sweet? Like color returning to the world? He doesn't think so. He's a strange combination of lost and hopeful as he makes his way out of the muddy streets, his fingers sticky with sweet juice. For now, just for now, Nathaniel isn't worried.
So maybe this is why he reacts the way he does to the girl perched on the wall. Maybe loneliness is the most powerful aversive left in him, and he recognizes the flame-bright curtain of her hair, the gourd resting near her feet. Maybe he's just relieved to see someone he knows, someone he isn't afraid of, still alive.
"Melita." A pleasant warmth hangs from each syllable, a honey-sweet delight born maybe from remembering her name, or just her face, or just the random collusion of circumstance which brought him to this moment, where he isn't worrying. Where he doesn't feel anything too keenly, at all.
Nathaniel tilts his head, eyes running over the ball of yarn in her hands, the half-formed and struggling knots. He realizes he doesn't know her profession. Doesn't remember, at least. "What are you doing?" It is an appropriate question, because he doesn't recognize what she's doing, at all, beyond: it is some form of knitting. Or crocheting. Or whatever you call it. She might be taking something apart, or creating something new. Nathaniel finds himself intrigued by the possibilities.
Maybe this is the natural result of some flaw in Nathaniel's personality — unavoidable, predetermined. But it makes some things strangely easier. He can stride into the settlement without really caring about who sees him, can haggle without the strange pricklings of guilt he used to get. He doesn't have much left to trade, though, anymore. He ought to go out and check the trap lines and set new ones, but he hasn't gotten around to that, yet.
At this moment, all he really cares about is the apple in his right hand, and the small satchel thrown carelessly over his opposite shoulder. Has an apple ever tasted so sweet? Like color returning to the world? He doesn't think so. He's a strange combination of lost and hopeful as he makes his way out of the muddy streets, his fingers sticky with sweet juice. For now, just for now, Nathaniel isn't worried.
So maybe this is why he reacts the way he does to the girl perched on the wall. Maybe loneliness is the most powerful aversive left in him, and he recognizes the flame-bright curtain of her hair, the gourd resting near her feet. Maybe he's just relieved to see someone he knows, someone he isn't afraid of, still alive.
"Melita." A pleasant warmth hangs from each syllable, a honey-sweet delight born maybe from remembering her name, or just her face, or just the random collusion of circumstance which brought him to this moment, where he isn't worrying. Where he doesn't feel anything too keenly, at all.
Nathaniel tilts his head, eyes running over the ball of yarn in her hands, the half-formed and struggling knots. He realizes he doesn't know her profession. Doesn't remember, at least. "What are you doing?" It is an appropriate question, because he doesn't recognize what she's doing, at all, beyond: it is some form of knitting. Or crocheting. Or whatever you call it. She might be taking something apart, or creating something new. Nathaniel finds himself intrigued by the possibilities.
