A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
This land, it squeezes him tight. It makes him feel like a dry root, twisted and skeletal, and sometimes when he glances down at his feet he is surprised to see there is enough of him to cast a shadow.
His prints, at least, are scrubbed away from the sand and dust not long after he leaves them.
Abel winds the wind-carved hallways of the canyons and thinks, of course, of the maze. It had seemed a grand thing that night, with the smokey tang of magic still clinging to it like a heap of rubble after a structure fire, and all those green leaves a-whispering as he walked alone among them. But it was nothing to this - and so it must be, he thinks, for what is magic to time and wind and nothingness?
The thought makes him bitter and glad.
The boy (for that is all he is, no matter how long his shadow) does not notice the fossils or the skulls; he has seen enough of the dying and dead, and bleached bones hold no interest for him. Abel cares little enough for the business of death - for he is doing his duty to live, just a gnarled root reaching for the sun, knowing it must push a little decay out of the way to find it.
But he does notice when he is no longer alone. He notices the round moons of hoof prints, before they are scoured away again; he notices the scent of green and growing things (though thick, as though they hover at the edge of decay) and cannot discover where they’re coming from. And then he winds around a shoulder of red stone and sees her, and thinks Ah.
For now he keeps his pace - even slows it down - only wanting to trail her, only wanting to observe.
It has been a long time since Abel was a person entire. Of late he is only pieces of himself, whatever is most useful - teeth, or ears, or burden-bearing shoulders, or eyes.
@Angharad
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