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(no subject)
There is a child on the swing-set in the park, singing:
"Oh I wish, I wish I was a fish.
Swimmin' in the deep blue sea, Nothing to keep me from being free.
Not a bird in a tree, not a yellow bumblebee..."
He is no older than six, no younger than three. He is not four.
Skellig is here merely to observe. It is what he is best at, he knows this.
People always stare at him, not now.
There are other children in the park, but none like this one. But this one is different, and he cannot seem to figure out why he is not like Them. So he watches.
"Oh I wish, I wish I was a fish..."
Who is he?
He flexes his fingers, ignoring the ache from the fall chill in the air.
(Sleeping on cardboard will do no favors to any man's body. Or beast's.)
A woman approaches his bench. She smiles at him as he glances up.
"This seat taken?"
buy you a drink
no, wait, not bar
Skellig shakes his head and then returns to watching the child on the swings. The woman reaches into her hangbag, removing a book before opening it to a marked page and beginning to read.
The boy is still singing.
Skellig waits until after the child's mother has moved from her bench (beside the slides) to collect her child, before he shifts his position on the bench. It will be time to go home, soon.
The boy waves at him as he heads down the path. Skellig waves back.
The woman beside him is watching the exchange.
"Interesting child," she says, some time later.
Skellig finds himself jarred from his internal conversation on the subject, and glances over at her, head-tilted in his trademark 'who, me?' expression. She...
iron
"Why does he matter?"
"All of them do," he answers.
iron and salt and sweat
"He's not as powerful as you are."
"None are."
iron and salt and sweat and ash
"Doesn't bother them that he's weak?"
"Not trained."
"Neither were you."
iron and salt and sweat and ash and earth
"Doesn't bother me."
"Why not?"
Skellig turns and scowls at the woman.
"It doesn't."
(So there, he does not say.)
She glares straight back at him.
"It should."
"It doesn't."
"Because you are a fool."
The hissed tone of her words brings his senses to the edge, invisible talons preparing themselves for a strike. If she is a snake, then it is easy enough to grab hold of her and fly to the tops of the trees, then let her fall below.
(Snakes do not survive five story drops, usually.)
He is not sure if she is a snake.
He is not sure what she is at all.
iron and salt and sweat and ash and earth
and death
She places a hand on his wrist, and he feels the chill of fall begin to seep into his skin.
No.
Not fall.
"It should bother you."
"It doesn't."
(But it should. He shivers.)
(She is not like Them. Not at all.)
but she's not a freak like you
iron and salt and sweat
and ash and earth
and death
Skellig pulls his arm away (once, twice) and then stands from the bench, looking at the woman and her book.
"You leave him alone," he says.
It is a question (please) and and an answer (thank you).
"Don't worry." And she smiles at him. "He's not mine."
Who is he?
He glances at the swing-set (empty and still, now) and then turns back towards his bench.
But the woman is gone.
Skellig stares into the distance for a moment, before he glances skyward. It is dark. And it is a long walk back to home.
(Flying would be faster.)
There is a rustle.
(but it is not the dead and dying leaves on the pavement)
And then he is gone, too.
Swimmin' in the deep blue sea, Nothing to keep me from being free.
Not a bird in a tree, not a yellow bumblebee..."
He is no older than six, no younger than three. He is not four.
(He is also not like Them.)
Skellig is here merely to observe. It is what he is best at, he knows this.
People always stare at him, not now.
There are other children in the park, but none like this one. But this one is different, and he cannot seem to figure out why he is not like Them. So he watches.
Who is he?
(Why are you watching him so closely?)
He flexes his fingers, ignoring the ache from the fall chill in the air.
(Sleeping on cardboard will do no favors to any man's body. Or beast's.)
A woman approaches his bench. She smiles at him as he glances up.
"This seat taken?"
no, wait, not bar
Skellig shakes his head and then returns to watching the child on the swings. The woman reaches into her hangbag, removing a book before opening it to a marked page and beginning to read.
The boy is still singing.
Skellig waits until after the child's mother has moved from her bench (beside the slides) to collect her child, before he shifts his position on the bench. It will be time to go home, soon.
The boy waves at him as he heads down the path. Skellig waves back.
The woman beside him is watching the exchange.
(She is not like Them, either.)
"Interesting child," she says, some time later.
Skellig finds himself jarred from his internal conversation on the subject, and glances over at her, head-tilted in his trademark 'who, me?' expression. She...
"Why does he matter?"
"All of them do," he answers.
"He's not as powerful as you are."
"None are."
"Doesn't bother them that he's weak?"
"Not trained."
"Neither were you."
freak
"Doesn't bother me."
"Why not?"
Skellig turns and scowls at the woman.
"It doesn't."
(So there, he does not say.)
She glares straight back at him.
"It should."
"It doesn't."
"Because you are a fool."
The hissed tone of her words brings his senses to the edge, invisible talons preparing themselves for a strike. If she is a snake, then it is easy enough to grab hold of her and fly to the tops of the trees, then let her fall below.
(Snakes do not survive five story drops, usually.)
He is not sure if she is a snake.
He is not sure what she is at all.
and death
She places a hand on his wrist, and he feels the chill of fall begin to seep into his skin.
No.
Not fall.
"It should bother you."
"It doesn't."
(But it should. He shivers.)
(She is not like Them. Not at all.)
but she's not a freak like you
iron and salt and sweat
and ash and earth
and death
Skellig pulls his arm away (once, twice) and then stands from the bench, looking at the woman and her book.
"You leave him alone," he says.
It is a question (please) and and an answer (thank you).
"Don't worry." And she smiles at him. "He's not mine."
Who is he?
He glances at the swing-set (empty and still, now) and then turns back towards his bench.
But the woman is gone.
Skellig stares into the distance for a moment, before he glances skyward. It is dark. And it is a long walk back to home.
There is a rustle.
(but it is not the dead and dying leaves on the pavement)
And then he is gone, too.