A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
Abel has never been ashamed before that he doesn’t know how to write. But shame in all its forms is nothing new to him; this is just one more stone on the grave he’s built himself, as he trades another piece of Isra’s gold to a man who copies down the words he dictates. How much more might he say if he were wielding the quill himself? How much more would be safe?
He knows the desire is as foolish as any dreams in his head; his words will always be clumsy things, unequal to the meaning behind them. Mutely he pays for each word, and mutely he watches as the scribe rolls up the letter, fastens it with leather, and tells him with a wink he will send it right away.
Hope feels as high and tight as a noose when he turns away.
Sabine,
I hope this finds you safe.
I am leaving - but I will until the new moon, if you would say goodbye. I want to keep my promise.
I’m staying near the docks in Denocte. Ask for Elijah.
I hope to see you, but if I don’t, please take care of yourself. Know that meeting you was the best thing that’s happened to me, maybe the only good thing.
-your follower, your guide
x | x
