[P] every me & every you

[Ruth]

☼  RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN  ☼
רות

"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."

It’s cold – almost violently cold – on Veneror.

Winter is different, in Solterra. In Solterra, winter only chills at night, and, even then, the chill does not have much of a bite. Here, the wind is so strong that it could nearly knock me from the narrow, winding path up the mountainside. Here, the wind is so cold that it buries itself in my bones and lingers. Here, the wind has a bite that makes my teeth hurt. I proceed up the ice-slick stairs regardless. My hooves slide beneath my weight almost every step; the unsteady movements leave a perpetual sense of unease gnawing in my chest, as though, at any moment, I could fall off the side of the cliff and tumble-

down

down

down.

For what it is worth – although I come from a family of priests, I have never been religious.

I’m sure that things like faith used to matter. I’m sure they used to mean – something. But now that we know that the gods are real, now that we know that they exist, and now, most of all, that we know of their fickleness, I see little point in worshipping them. My slow pilgrimage to Solis’s alter is not a matter of devotion (I am not sure that I am devoted to anything); it is a matter of obligation.

So – I am picking my way up the icy slope, incense and matches hovering in the air alongside me, in spite of the cold.

Ishak is just behind me. I know that he didn’t want to go. The weather on the mountain changes quickly, and, at this time of the year, it can be quite dangerous; blinding snowstorms, vicious hail, sleet so slick that it will send you cascading off the mountainside. Still, I have made this trip every winter before this, and I don’t expect that this time will be much different.

I make this trip every season. You would think that I would have a better grasp of where we are on the mountainside, but I can only say for sure that we are high; I have no concept of the miles we have left to climb, nor the time it will take to reach the peak. (All I can say with confidence is that I am hoping that it is close. There are always fires burning at the altar in the cathedral, and the reprieve from winter’s biting chill would be welcome.)

In the distance, dark clouds are blooming on the horizon, thick and heavy with moisture; I grimace, noting the direction of the wind, and risk a look back over my shoulder at Ishak. “It looks like a storm is moving in,” I say, tilting my head in the direction of the clouds. “We should search for somewhere to wait it out.” Veneror calls to pilgrims, no matter the season. There are plenty of shallow caves and hides on the path up the mountainside, often with supplies left behind to aid fellow travelers.

All we need to do is find the next one.

---

@Ishak || questionable quality starter RIP but Ilu || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"

[Ishak]

☼  ISHAK  ☼
اسحاق

"Saint Peter don't you call me, 'cause I can't go"

This is the third winter you’ve climbed Veneror with Ruth. Yet, you wouldn’t say you are any more prepared for the biting chill. Every inch of the climb feels treacherous, and you keep a careful eye on Ruth’s every step ahead of you.


(It’s a long climb, and you’d rather think of anything than of what the end result of a fall would be. You’ve seen twisted bodies at the bottom of cliffs, and you would rather not see another. Not another you cared about.)


Every time Ruth’s hooves slide, you wince.


You really would rather be anywhere else. When you were younger, you’d thought it almost funny that this spire of a mountain top cradled the house of worship for all Novus. Oh, you could see the appeal of carving out an altar to the gods somewhere this forbidding, but it’s still a mountain top. There are places that are more opposite of a desert, but it’s still strikingly dissimilar. That said, there’s no location you know that could align with all five gods, so you suppose a mountain’s just as well.


Still, were you in charge of building a cathedral to send the priestly Ieshans to you’d have picked somewhere more sensible. Right next to the Oasis, maybe. They could have a procession through the streets of the city on the way so all their hanger-ons could get their fill of the sight of them and all the not-Ruth Ieshans could get their egos filled.


You really would rather be anywhere else, but Ruth is an Ieshan. You’ve eavesdropped on enough of the family tutors to have some idea of how much emphasis on familial duty Ruth grew up with. You are certain she wouldn’t be here either if she felt she had the choice.


The wind comes blowing blisterly, striking at your flank. Your scar aches. You look up, away from Ruth’s hooves and out at the landscape instead. The world seems to unfold from up here, like a scroll rolling across a desk. The view is beautiful, in the way only deadly things are. One wrong step...


“It looks like a storm is moving in,” Ruth says, tilting her head towards the sky. You focus on the sky instead of the land. Heavy, dark clouds are rolling in far faster than you’d like. “We should search for somewhere to wait it out.”


“Right on both accounts.”


You look over her at the path and squint. Ruth takes this trip every season and now that you are on your third year of following her, you’d like to think you are a veteran of sorts. You’ve made an effort to memorize the signs of a stop along the route.


“I think there’s a cave not far ahead, if I’m reading that marker right.” You gesture for Ruth to keep going. The thought of starting a fire is already warming you up.


Your first step as the two of you start moving again sends a stone skittering away down the mountainside. As you move on, some part of you is stuck listening for a landing you could never hear.

---

@Ruth | did I write this at an ungodly hour? yes <3!!! | “sixteen tons” - tennessee ernie ford

[Ruth]

☼  RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN  ☼
רות

"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."

Ishak agrees, of course. Right on both accounts.

My acknowledgement comes as nothing but silence and a slow nod of my head; the howl of the wind fills in the space where my words could be, a sudden mix of chill and moisture suggestive of the coming storm. I think there’s a cave not far ahead, if I read that marker right. I didn’t even notice it. I nod again and keep walking, winding precariously thin bends. I don’t look down at the dizzyingly steep slope below, but I know – from experience – that it is there.

I would estimate that it takes a quarter of a mile to reach the cave. There are markers, but I have disregarded them almost entirely, so it is hard to say for shore. The indentation appears shallow at first, but that is only the entryway; the cave itself is broader, with the entryway little more than a bottleneck. (It should keep the wind out, somewhat.) There are some tattered blankets on the cold floor, and some dry wood (plenty enough to keep a fire going for a while, fortunately) in the far corner, sheltered from the elements by the cavern’s indentation. I pluck a log from the pile, then another, then another, until I’ve put together a small pile near the blankets. After all – I am the one with the matches.

Outside, the sky has turned grey. A few flurries leak in through the entrance; the wind howls a whispy accompaniment.

“It feels strange to come here alone,” I say. Of course, I don’t mean really alone, not at all – but Ishak is such a constant in my life that his presence barely warrants mentioning. By alone, I mean the two of us; not myself. That is how it has been for years, now, and I can only imagine that he thinks the same way.

On previous trips to Veneror, I had often accompanied one or more of my siblings. I have always thought that Adonai is the most religious among us, and I still do, but I do not know if he can make the pilgrimage, sick as he is. Perhaps I should take him, in spring, or try. It would be the right thing to do. It would be the sisterly thing to do. Besides, I am the one in the house with medical training. I could – probably – keep him alive on the trip.

(Of course: he is dying. I know it from a glance. There is no way to ensure his safety.)

I run the match to spark, and I press it to the dry wood. It takes time to catch, but soon I’ve coaxed it to a small, but spreading, blaze.

“Ishak. Do you think that we should come back, when spring comes?”

It’s good as ritual, by now. But it always has been, even if I have never been well-attuned with sacred things; I just didn’t notice. I’m not sure if I have been rendered more or less religious by the appearance of the gods, by Raum, by familial tragedy. I’m not sure that I have changed at all.

I am not sure what good it will do to pray to gods who may well not be listening. You might as well be praying to empty stone.

But. I have always clung to familiarity. It is another way of keeping my eyes closed. When I pray to the gods, I close my eyes, and I tell myself that I do not know the truth of their nature.

---

@Ishak || I have a feeling I know what Ishak is going to say, &, unfortunately for him, I do believe that I already have thread plans. || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"

[Ishak]

☼  ISHAK  ☼
اسحاق

"Saint Peter don't you call me, 'cause I can't go"

As Ruth starts floating left-behind logs into a cabin stack, you make sure to drop both tinder and kindling in the middle. You nudge the logs more parallel, to keep the burn even. It’ll burn slowly, and last you through the storm without as much need to keep feeding. A good choice, though a bit elaborate.


You gaze around the cave. The bottleneck entrance makes it more defensible, and no animals seem to call it home. You’re not worried, but you’re in the habit for several good reasons.


“It feels strange to come here alone.”

You know when Ruth says alone that it is not a slight against you, just a fact. It’s a bit comforting to hear that she’s expanded her definition to include you, but you didn’t need to hear it to know it.


As for the rest of her statement, you don’t know about strange. If asked, you’d have chosen quiet. Without any of her siblings for your trip, there has been much less chatter. Much fewer distractions. All the better considering the circumstances; it would have been an inconvenience to lose one of the other Ieshans to a fall.


You sling a ratty blanket over your shoulders. You doubt it will do much to the cold, but until Ruth coaxes a flame to life it’s better than nothing. You drape one over Ruth as well, though you think she handles a chill better than you.


A flame springs to life, and Ruth says, “Ishak.” You turn your attention from the growing blaze to her. “Do you think that we should come back, when spring comes?”


You stare at her for a moment, and then roll your eyes straight to the cave’s roof. “Does it matter? We’ll come here in the spring, and the season after that, and on until we’re ashes dancing on the desert wind.” You flick the end of a blanket at her and answer anyway. “No, I don’t.”


It’s all pointless. The gods will do as they will prayer or no prayer. You’d argue one would have better luck asking the sea to slow the tide than a god to change their mind. At least, if you time it right, the tide may start rolling out.


You know some find comfort in it; your father always did.


What you don’t know is this: does Ruth?


“Do you?” you ask it like an afterthought as the wind picks up.

---

@Ruth | “unfortunately for him” | “sixteen tons” - tennessee ernie ford

[Ruth]

☼  RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN  ☼
רות

"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."

The fire spreads slowly. I breathe in woodsmoke; small embers are already rising from the flame. Ishak drapes a blanket across my shoulders, and I move close enough to him to touch our shoulders, though I do not look at him at all.

When I ask him my question, I feel him look at me, though I don’t look back. “Does it matter? We’ll come here in the spring, and the season after that, and on until we’re ashes dancing on the desert wind.” It isn’t an answer. I wait. He flicks the tip of a blanket at me, and I finally look at him, and it is only then that he answers me.

Ishak says no. Of course he does. I already knew that he would, before I even asked the question. That did not stop me from asking it regardless. I already know that we will be back in the spring, too, just as he says – but I asked the question anyways.

“I don’t know,” I say, finally. “I’m not Pilate, or Adonai – I don’t need to show devotion, I suppose.” And that’s all it really is: an elaborately-crafted show. I might have been more devoted, when I was younger. (It was always self-interested.) Before the gods appeared. I remember, as a child, that I would crawl out of bed late at night, when everyone else was asleep, and I could no longer even hear the servants scuttling around in the hall, and I would light candles and incense that I snuck from morning worship services. I would light them, watch the smoke rise, and pray feverishly to Solis to make me whole, make me whole, please; please, just fix me, please, I only want to be normal. I knew, by then, that nothing could fix me – short of divine intervention, I hoped.

Most of my siblings begged to be the most special. I had already given up on that; I only longed to be ordinary.

Of course: Solis never granted that request, like he never granted so many requests. If he never appeared, I might have been able to accept it; if I never had proof of his existence, of his mind, of his intent, his silence would have been a simple quirk of the divine.

I never loathed him, before he appeared. I still don’t. I’m not sure that I can loathe anything.

I no longer saw the point in praying, after the gods appeared. That revelation – if you can call it that – was as good as an answer.

And then there was Raum. And now there is my family. My dead parents. My dead sister. My near-dead brother. Are we not Ieshans, the most religious family in Solterra?

(I am not sure how many of my siblings are faithful. Perhaps that is why he has never turned his gaze on us, in all the time that I have known that he is awake.)

“I don’t expect a response,” I say, finally. “I wonder, though, if there would be repercussions if we don’t come.”

Solis is a wrathful, avenging god. All flame and gold. Silence might provoke more of a response from him than depthless offerings – but I can only imagine that response would be an unkind one, and I am not sure how much unkindness my family can take.

---

@Ishak || is this coherent? who knows. || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"

[Ishak]

☼  ISHAK  ☼
اسحاق

"Saint Peter don't you call me, 'cause I can't go"

”I don’t know,” Ruth says.


You wait a moment, staring into the fire.


She continues. ”I’m not Pilate, or Adonai— ” And thank Solis for that. “I don’t need to show devotion, I suppose.”


You don’t miss the emphasis on need. You don’t miss that it’s not quite an answer to your question.


Need: it’s a funny word, isn’t it? You hear it so often. Young debutantes at noble parties all atwitter about how they need the latest fashion; noblemen discussing how to fulfil their need for more signos. How often is the thing needed actually necessary? How many of the glittering jewels in Solterra’s noble houses know what it’s like to be one more bad day away from starving?


How many of them have written a contract, have said this horse needs to die?


Maybe it was even true. They needed to die to feed you.


Enough about your blood money. Enough about the blood money you’re likely living off of even now. (Even were all the Ieshans’ hooves clean, they’re still a noble family. At least Ruth’s hooves are bloodied from hospital floors.)


“I don’t expect a response, but I wonder if there would be repercussions if we don’t come.”


Solis is an avatar of pride as much as he is the midday sun. Ruth could be right. It is not so great a leap to a conclusion. His personal, physical appearance puts it into the realm of possibility. Still.


“In those places where they live by the sea, when the tides pull out…” you look at Ruth, “do you think the tsunami cares if they’ve prayed?”


You shrug, and continue. “They keep living there. The tides will keep cycling long after they’re gone.” You look away from Ruth, to the mouth of the cave, and past it where snow is falling. “They’re unnecessary. The tides don’t need anything from them.”

The gods have the capacity for malevolence. You know this the way you know how to sing, how to breathe. If they had not, would you have ever been born? If Caligo had not retreated to the southeast in pain, if Solis had not left to the northeast in anger, there would be no courts. You can’t even begin to imagine what the world would look like without them.


(The ocean doesn’t. You feel fairly certain in this. Snakes, the ocean, the physical sun itself as opposed to the gods that embody it. These are things that lack the capacity for malevolence, for ruthlessness.)


Out amongst the flurry, you see a fork of lightning. A mere moment later, a peal of thunder. The storm is upon you.

---

@Ruth | catch me going “oh, Ishak” constantly | “sixteen tons” - tennessee ernie ford

[Ruth]

☼  RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN  ☼
רות

"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."

Ishak turns his head to look at me. His expression is one that I find familiar – I don’t know what it means, exactly, but it is the type that I always want to probe at, pick at like a scab (although I am a doctor) and see what bleeds out from beneath. I never can, of course. It is as much a curiosity as it is a promise. I know he will never let me do it; that look is as good as an iron wall. (He is full of stories that he refuses to tell.) If I ask, he’ll simply deflect the question.

(It didn’t always bother me. It bothers me more than it should, lately.)
 
In those places where they live by the sea, when the tides pull out… do you think the tsunami cares if they’ve prayed? I incline my head at him, wondering about the comparison - water, rather than desert sands. They keep living there. The tides will keep cycling long after they’re gone. They’re unnecessary. The tides don’t need anything from them.

Prayer won’t avert disaster. I don’t disagree. The tides persist, regardless of the mortals who inhabit the beach; I don’t disagree with that, either. (But don't those mortals need the tides?)

The ocean has no mind. The ocean cannot be petty; it cannot be cruel. I half-open my mouth, but, before I can speak, a rolling throb of thunder swallows up the space where I’d meant to speak. My back is to the entrance, but I can see the forked tongue of white-violet lightning reflected on the wall, bringing with it a fresh swirl of cold wind and snow. I shut my mouth, and I look at the fire instead of Ishak. A pale swirl of smoke rises from the lick of it, coiling towards the ceiling of the cave.

Finally, I say: “What do the tides matter?”

It is not the kind of question that begs an answer.

“They have no mind, Ishak,” comes my response to the (largely rhetorical) question, “but the gods do.” And the moment that you can think of cruel things – you can become something cruel. I do not know why the gods abandoned us. I do not know why they came back, or why they left. I cannot say that I understand them at all. (I cannot say that I understand anyone. Not like I should. For as long as I can remember, I have stood in a glass room, in front of a glass door, staring out at all other people. I can see them. That is all. I cannot feel them. I cannot touch them; my understanding is hindered by that awful door. It’s locked. I cannot break it, and I am through with asking gods to shatter it for me. How could I possibly understand the divine? I cannot even understand my own kind.) Still. I think it is for the best to be as inoffensive as possible.
 
“I don’t expect salvation,” I say, flatly. I know better. If I prayed to Solis to save me, or my family, or Ishak, or anyone else – I suppose he might, if he felt like it, but it is much more likely that he would do nothing at all. “I don’t expect kindness. I don't even expect mercy. But Ishak: if you met a sandwyrm in the desert, would you provoke it if you knew that you couldn’t win? Solis needs nothing from us. That does not mean I want to risk his anger.” And I am from a family of priests. Who knows what he might find offensive, from an Ieshan? Of course - that assumes that any part of us is entangled with the divine, that any part of it as blessed as we try to seem. I have always been skeptical. Would we be like this, if we were?

(But I am no priestess. I drip mortal blood and bone and sinew, not ichor and incense and gold. How much can Solis expect of me? How much has anyone ever expected of me?)

I shake my head, exhaling softly. We will be back in the spring, regardless of anything I say, or anything Ishak tries to convince me of. I know this already; I knew this already. “It may be best to try to rest.” There is still, I think, some distance to the summit, and I am not sure how often we will stop.

(I do not think that I will be able to sleep.)

---

@Ishak || some possibly incoherent philosophizing coming right up || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"

[Ishak]

☼  ISHAK  ☼
اسحاق

"Saint Peter don't you call me, 'cause I can't go"

There’s a question Ruth doesn’t ask you; you can see it on her face. And it matches with her rhetorical opener, you’re certain.


Why water?


You could have said flash flood. You could have said desert storms. You didn’t. Water is still deadly, water is still necessary. The ocean, at least, is a beast one step removed.


“But the gods do.” Ruth says.

You have no real response to that, not one that isn’t do they really? They talk like you; they appear like you. But who can say they think like you?


“I don’t expect salvation. I don’t expect kindness. I don't even expect mercy. But Ishak: if you met a sandwyrm in the desert, would you provoke it if you knew that you couldn’t win? Solis needs nothing from us. That does not mean I want to risk his anger.”


You are desert-born and desert-raised. You know what it was like to be solid in a world that shifted. You knew some that were lost to gaping mouths instead of shifting sands. You knew too what it meant to be someone’s last stop before they challenged a wyrm. Your father thought them foolish, but he was happy enough to top off their supplies.


“The honest answer, Ruth?” you say, knowing that the mere mention of the word makes you more suspect, “I’d prefer it not to know I was there at all.”


And maybe it is honest. Yet, here you are, trailing after an Ieshan. Not a shiny one, not an egocentric one. But still, someone kin to the priesthood. Someone who grew up with incense and prayers clinging to her coat as surely as antiseptic and decay. Is she not a priestess of a different sort? You have heard the prayers of dying men — when are they not for healing?


Regardless, Ruth’s responses when taken in sum are an answer to your unasked question. It seems she does not find comfort in religion. You are not sure how you feel that there are things left to discover about her; it keeps life interesting, but you find comfort in her predictability. Your uncertainty is irrelevant, though, in the same way the looks of fences and old colleagues are. You will climb this mountain with Ruth again and again and again.


“It may be best to try to rest,” Ruth says.


Sleep sounds heavenly. You settle down, and then smirk up at her, heights reversed, “Doctor’s orders, huh.”


Sleep sounds heavenly, but you know you won’t be able to get any as long as Ruth stays awake.

---

@Ruth | “oh, Ishak” round 2  | “sixteen tons” - tennessee ernie ford

[Ruth]

☼  RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN  ☼
רות

"The mouth was open / stretched wide in a call or howl / (there was no tongue) / of agony, ultimate / command or simple famine. / The canine teeth ranged back / into the throat and vanished. / The mouth was filled with darkness. / The darkness in the open mouth / uttered itself, pushing / aside the light."

The fire crackles. I stare at it, at the embers crawling like red ants over the charred wood. I’m not sure how long it will last before it goes out, particularly in this cold, particularly in this storm, but, for now, the room has warmed almost-pleasantly.

The honest answer, Ruth? Ishak says, and I somehow know exactly what to expect before the words are out of his mouth. I’d prefer it not to know I was there at all. Of course he wouldn’t. Of course, any reasonable person wouldn’t, and it’s probably my own delusion (our own delusion, collectively) that Solis pays any more mind to the Ieshans than he does anyone else. He didn’t even seem to care when his own sovereign, supposed to be (by all accounts) his chosen one, was struck down in her prime by a tyrant from Denocte.

(But, then, she was not of royal blood.)

The cardinal sin of my family is mine too: the longing to be seen. How could it be anything else? Each flash of scales or spark of pale gold or dance of silk or shock of teeth or curl of red – everything about us begs look at me. All the ugliness and intrigue under the surface begs look at me. All the rituals, all the prayers, everything – it doesn’t mean look at god. It means look at me.

“You’re probably right,” I say, slowly. "That's what any reasonable person would prefer." How much time do I spend outside of the city walls? How much time do I spend in the desert, in the company of the sandwyrms and teryrs so emblematic of Solterra? Far less, I think, than I spend down by the docks, or at the shore. That is to say: I wouldn’t know what to do with a sandwyrm at all, if I met one in passing. The most I know of them is their consequence; the most I know of them is bloodied, half-devoured bodies brought into the morgue or grisly scars in emergency care. (That is to say: I wouldn’t know what to do with Solis at all, if I met him, by fate or in passing.)

Ishak is probably right. Ishak is probably right, and it doesn’t matter a bit. We’ll be back in the spring, regardless.

At my comment on sleep, Ishak tosses me a smirk, and then he settles down on the stone floor of the cave; I follow him down, our heights quickly returning to something like their usual discrepancy, adjusting the blanket pulled across my shoulders. Doctor’s orders, huh? I nearly roll my eyes, but I don’t. It would suggest that I feel stronger than I do, and I don't bother pretending like that for Ishak.

I don’t dignify his remark with a response. Instead, I rest my jaw on the curve of his shoulder almost unconsciously, and I allow my eyes to close.

It is still some time before I fall asleep.

---

@Ishak || is this coherent? idk man. anyways, A Close??? || atwood, "projected slide of an unknown soldier"

[Ishak]

☼  ISHAK  ☼
اسحاق

"Saint Peter don't you call me, 'cause I can't go"

Ruth settles down against you.


Outside, snow builds up and is blown away in equal measures. You watch the dance of it. There’s something strange and beautiful in watching water change like a sand dune.


Reasonable, Ruth had said. She said it slowly, syllables plonking along like foals flinging pebbles into the oasis pool for precision practice. And under the water? You could guess what she was thinking. You’d probably even be right.


Reasonable. Do you deserve the appellation? A reasonable assassin would have taken the first opportunity to flee, wouldn’t they? You’d shake the thought away in another situation, but you’d rather not jostle Ruth.


Instead, you drag the wood pile closer. You tuck the blankets tighter around the two of you. You count Ruth’s breaths waiting for them to even out.


1…, 2…, 3…,


Your father was devout, was he unreasonable to have hope of an answer? If you were someone else, you might open your mouth and push the breath through your lungs to your larynx, might ask. You are not.


1…, 2…, 3…,


Your father was devout, and you know how it sounded when he told you he had already gotten his answer. Hair of your father, eyes of your mother, height that could have come from either… They treated you as the answer to their prayers. How long had they asked for you? They were older (slower, and you think of rapid waters) when they finally had you.


You know once your mother whispered that she thought she would pass through her foal-bearing years with no child at all.


Of course, your father was the sort to consider everything in life a blessing from the gods, so it’s not like it made you any more special.


1…, 2…, 3…,


Finally, Ruth’s breaths settle. The storm is starting to, too, you think.


You let yourself fall asleep.

---

@Ruth | is this...how you do a closer | “sixteen tons” - tennessee ernie ford