A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
Do you miss it?
He does not miss the question, not when it’s the only sound as they wait like rats between high brick walls, a little canyon in the heart of Denocte. And as one of Abel’s ears follow the last voices from the group, he shakes his head.
The bay does not miss being an orphan, does not miss the new grief of both parents dead that had felt like a fishing-knife laying him open. A wound always sharp-edged and raw that everyone else bore too, making them each to weary to heal. His companionship with the other wharf- and street-children had been borne of circumstance and necessity, less loyal than a flock of pigeons - much less crows.
But Denocte? Oh, he misses his city. Misses the way the bonfires lifted smoke like an offering to blur the stars, and the sting of it when you crept too close on a winter’s night. He misses the constant noise and color of the night markets, where on a hundred sleepless nights he’d walked, solitary but not alone, the clamor of it lulling him better than the ocean could. He misses knowing exactly where he is by the position of the mountains, or the sea. He aches to come home.
And here he is, with a match in his hand.
His head is low as he listens to the golden man respond, but his dark eyes flick up to silver ones when he nods in agreement. Much as waiting appealed to the dark and withered remnants of Abel’s heart, his companion is right, and he is glad he is no fool. As much as Toulouse wonders why Abel would turn against his own home, the barred bay wonders why a man with no ties to his city would bring such woe upon it -
but some men, he has learned, just like madness. And it is a pointless game, to guess why a man would dip his hands in sin. There were so many possible reasons.
Abel doesn’t need the horned man to tell him to ready; he is already tensing, listening to that lullably wind nearer. It is an old song, timeless in Denocte, sung to children by fishwives and kings alike. He could sing along, if he wanted, longing words about the moon, about the waves that turn to mountains on the open sea, about the bonfires lit to bring a sailor home.
His lips remain pressed shut; he runs his tongue across his teeth, counting footsteps, counting seconds.
Now, he says, and like a shadow Abel follows. He chooses a different point to strike his match; he does not let himself think, he barely breathes as it strikes and sulfur fills his nose. (If he thought he would think of the distant glow in the mountains as they’d burned, the smoke and ash that had clouded the sun for days afterward, the search for survivors, the bones of his mother. Had she suffered, had she screamed, had the smell of smoke and burning filled the air? Yes, yes, yes - he is sure of it - and now here he is with a match in hand - but it’s only grain, it’s only an empty building, it’s nothing at all)
Almost too late, he uses the match to light a liquor-doused rag, and when he throws that into all those rows of winter-dry sacks the fire eats it eagerly. There are flames reflecting in Abel’s eyes when he steps back.
@Toulouse
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