A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
Oh, the turmoil below his skin from the moment they crossed from the bask of the desert into the cold of his homeland.
Outwardly Abel remained impassive as a shadow, watchful and silent, but within he was a maelstrom. He did not pick apart his feelings; there was no time for it, as they joined with a caravan of gypsies coming into the city for the night, the world flickering in torchlight and bonfire smoke. Like incense those scents drew up his soul, out and out, and it was better to feel separate and apart, the way a bird might feel to look at the world below.
It was clear that Toulouse was no stranger to this type of work - that or he took to it as naturally as a fox, eyes bright as a crow’s. Abel did not care for the slant of his smile, or the rake of his gaze over scenes so familiar to the boy - but he is grateful that his job, for now, is only to follow in silence.
He moves down the streets of Denocte as smoothly as rainwater down the drains; he knows his path, knows each shadow and the jut of each building like the shape of his own teeth. And as they draw nearer to their target with each step and turn, his heart aches like a rotten tooth even as it begins to race with something he thinks - he dreads to think - is excitement.
There is no moon, and the clouds are winter-thick and ragged, and so he cannot tell if the golden man is smiling when he speaks. He is glad not to know, glad that there is no way to read his own expression when he breathes “Yes.”
Abel steps into the lead, turning left into the welcoming shadows.
They are still a few blocks off, the angle of the roof hidden behind another narrow street. It is perilously close to the heart of the city; the sea is only a hint of salt upon his tongue. Abel moves like a rabbit through a warren, slipping through alleys only a hands-breadth wider than his shoulders, pausing in the cover of learning corners when the sound of talk grows too near. A few moments later and they emerge a few buildings down from the storage structure, and the scent of grain and grass is sweet upon the air.
Already the matches and tinder he carries feel like they are burning; maybe it is only the heat of his own blood, warm against the winter air. Now Abel melts against the rough bricks as a group of young horses passes, voices low - but not so low that he doesn’t recognize them. The boy closes his eyes against the thudding of his heartbeat as those he once ran the streets with drifts by, and only opens them once the echo of their footsteps has faded into the night.
There, at the end of the block, the faint flicker of a lantern - a guard in his last minutes of duty. They have timed it well; soon he will depart, leaving their perilous window.
Only now does he look back to his companion, as he scents the air for a smoke thicker, richer than Denocte’s nightly bonfires. Abel leans close, close to the golden man’s ear, and his voice is a rough murmur, like the sand of the desert has caught in his throat.
”We will have our chance in a few minutes - but we could wait until one of the other fires has begun. That should draw all the guards away for some time.”
It is up to you, he does not say, but each decision Abel does not have to make feels like a feather lifted from the weight on his soul.
@Toulouse
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