i used to pray like god was listening
i used to make my parents proud
i used to make my parents proud
The nights are long, and dark. What cold wind howling in from the coast that doesn't land fruitlessly against the dark rock of the cliff or the walls of the city blusters its way into the capitol, flapping the shudders of a large and cluttered workshop lit only by the orange glow of a wide, round coal fire and a lantern or two swinging lazily from their chains on the ceiling.
Overall there is the sense of warmth, and comfort, and sleep about the workshop--and not only because its craftsman is draped belly-up over a sturdy wood table, snoring quietly into a pile of leather scraps and thick, rusted bolts with one wing lolling off the edge far enough to brush its tips on the floor. The forge is napping with him, quiet though its coals glow so bright, puffing black smoke through the chimney as if snoring, itself.
(He calls her Angel, his devoted bride, in bars, knocking back pint after pint. Sometimes he laughs a little too hard at it. Sometimes he doesn't laugh at all.)
Outside the city is humming with life, strung with lights and boughs of evergreen though the festival has either not ramped up or already passed--he cannot quite remember--but in here it is only the creak of the swinging lanterns, the slap of the shutters, and a knock at the door.
Hugo frowns, without opening his eyes, trying to bat away sleep. A knock at the door. He rolls off the table in a sudden boom of sound, scattering parchment and scrap metal and bolts and tools and graphite. A knock at the door. "Hold on!" he says--more urgently than he'd expected--scooping as much of the mess as he can into his good wing and dropping it back on the table before stumbling through the fog of waking toward the heavy wood door, simply built and braced in cast iron.
A knock at the door. Before it, Hugo closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tells himself: you're okay.
The door swings open at Hugo's behest, and Marisol is on the other side, orange as his feathers in the glow at the heart of his workshop. He smiles, something that seems so very at home on his face. "Commander," he says, "it's a dangerous time to go leering through doorways--there's mistletoe on the loose this time of year." He tilts his head back, to look at the door frame and, seeing nothing, shrugs at her as if to say maybe next time, before stepping back to invite her inside.
"Are you aware it's late?" he says, and it really isn't--past sundown, sure, but sundown is so early this time of year--but his grin somehow widens anyway, the tip of one wing against his chest. Hugo gasps. "Did you bring me mistletoe?"
Overall there is the sense of warmth, and comfort, and sleep about the workshop--and not only because its craftsman is draped belly-up over a sturdy wood table, snoring quietly into a pile of leather scraps and thick, rusted bolts with one wing lolling off the edge far enough to brush its tips on the floor. The forge is napping with him, quiet though its coals glow so bright, puffing black smoke through the chimney as if snoring, itself.
(He calls her Angel, his devoted bride, in bars, knocking back pint after pint. Sometimes he laughs a little too hard at it. Sometimes he doesn't laugh at all.)
Outside the city is humming with life, strung with lights and boughs of evergreen though the festival has either not ramped up or already passed--he cannot quite remember--but in here it is only the creak of the swinging lanterns, the slap of the shutters, and a knock at the door.
Hugo frowns, without opening his eyes, trying to bat away sleep. A knock at the door. He rolls off the table in a sudden boom of sound, scattering parchment and scrap metal and bolts and tools and graphite. A knock at the door. "Hold on!" he says--more urgently than he'd expected--scooping as much of the mess as he can into his good wing and dropping it back on the table before stumbling through the fog of waking toward the heavy wood door, simply built and braced in cast iron.
A knock at the door. Before it, Hugo closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tells himself: you're okay.
The door swings open at Hugo's behest, and Marisol is on the other side, orange as his feathers in the glow at the heart of his workshop. He smiles, something that seems so very at home on his face. "Commander," he says, "it's a dangerous time to go leering through doorways--there's mistletoe on the loose this time of year." He tilts his head back, to look at the door frame and, seeing nothing, shrugs at her as if to say maybe next time, before stepping back to invite her inside.
"Are you aware it's late?" he says, and it really isn't--past sundown, sure, but sundown is so early this time of year--but his grin somehow widens anyway, the tip of one wing against his chest. Hugo gasps. "Did you bring me mistletoe?"
Hugo Arkwright
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