Harper
Harper grins in return, pleased to find a kindred spirit. He'd been teased constantly by the merchants in Torchline about his waistline, but they all knew he ran and trained every day, so he'd happily show off for his treats whenever he got the chance. It makes his heart ache momentarily for Torchline, but he shoves that down, down, down. Just as he does the comparisons between them.
He isn't expecting her question, or the way it brings him back to himself; back to the lingering sweetness on his lips, which he chases with another bite as he considers his answer. "It's hard to love something that has changed to the point of being unrecognizable," he murmurs, the depths of it plucking at his insides. "Hard not to compare it to what you knew. To ask it for things it can't give." He turns his eyes back to her so he doesn't lose himself out there on the horizon, and his smile is sad. "But why should it stop changing out of courtesy for me? I just have to learn to see it the way it is now. Love it for what it does offer. And I think I'm getting there, the more I visit." And maybe that's easier for Harper, who wasn't born and raised here, trapped here, but at least it's the truth.
"I ran away from Torchline and never stopped running. Travel helps, but there's something healing about having somewhere to return to. Familiarity. Roots." He says it mostly for her, because Harper has bleached and burned all his edges so they can never form roots again. He can't bear the pain they come with, even though he is meant for them. Kneeling beside her, he helps to pick at the best fruit on the ground and slides them gently into the fold of her shirt until it's nearly overflowing. He holds the last one in his hand to replace the one they'd mutilated in a few short bites and discards the core for the bees and birds. "But that's just me. It hurts - constantly - to not have a place to call home for me. But I'm trying to change my own head, learn to like the nomadic life. Our natures and our goals do best when aligned, but they don't always have to be."
He isn't expecting her question, or the way it brings him back to himself; back to the lingering sweetness on his lips, which he chases with another bite as he considers his answer. "It's hard to love something that has changed to the point of being unrecognizable," he murmurs, the depths of it plucking at his insides. "Hard not to compare it to what you knew. To ask it for things it can't give." He turns his eyes back to her so he doesn't lose himself out there on the horizon, and his smile is sad. "But why should it stop changing out of courtesy for me? I just have to learn to see it the way it is now. Love it for what it does offer. And I think I'm getting there, the more I visit." And maybe that's easier for Harper, who wasn't born and raised here, trapped here, but at least it's the truth.
"I ran away from Torchline and never stopped running. Travel helps, but there's something healing about having somewhere to return to. Familiarity. Roots." He says it mostly for her, because Harper has bleached and burned all his edges so they can never form roots again. He can't bear the pain they come with, even though he is meant for them. Kneeling beside her, he helps to pick at the best fruit on the ground and slides them gently into the fold of her shirt until it's nearly overflowing. He holds the last one in his hand to replace the one they'd mutilated in a few short bites and discards the core for the bees and birds. "But that's just me. It hurts - constantly - to not have a place to call home for me. But I'm trying to change my own head, learn to like the nomadic life. Our natures and our goals do best when aligned, but they don't always have to be."
I cut my teeth on second-hand sentiments
you can't trust a thing I say
you can't trust a thing I say
