bless yer' heart —「andal &. hattie.」
Feb 1, 2023 18:37:19 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 1, 2023 18:37:19 GMT -5
If what he had gone through in the arena was deemed hard, asking his mother to move to the victor village is the real trial by fire.
He wakes up to silence.
Arms akimbo and the sun warming his bare skin, the silk-soft sheets under him keep Andal hostage for a moment, during which he lets his senses adjust to his new room—the scent of recently-bought furniture, the ludicrous thread count of the bedsheets, and the sweetness of fruits and flowers someone has left behind, but no sound. Nothing, not even a pin drop, all except for the soft pattering of summer snows against a closed window, muted and dull.
Before he used to wake up to chaos: Rowan’s chatter, the loud rumble of Luke’s beloved Cherry, and even some early complaining from Lena. But now the house sits still like a tomb and he feels buried all over again. He stares at the ceiling for a long moment.
Perhaps another hour of sleep?
As if hearing that, some rooster crows in a distance. He groans. Now he has to get up. Everyone in this district knew that it was bad luck if you let that morning symphony fall on deaf ears.
Andal sits up, moves to stretch his legs, and a sudden force yanks him back. He falls in bed again, eye level with the handcuff he’s put around his own wrist.
Now this would be hard to explain if his family lives here. It is also part of the reason why he hasn’t asked in earnest because this secret, this dark and hidden thing, could lead to a flawless rendition of his worst nightmares if it is ever unleashed again. Even now, after another round of antidotes and serums, he could feel an itch in his teeth whenever he ate. He could feel the wolf prowling under his skin, restless paws, hungry mouth …
Andal sighs. “Where did I put the key?” he mutters, palming around for a few seconds. No key. “Darn it.”
There’s a sudden rip as he wrenches his wrist back, tearing off the bedpost around which the handcuff has been wrapped. He stands up. The handcuff still bangles his wrist, the bedpost dangling a few inches down from it, but at least now he’s free to fetch a bowl of oats. With his free, not-handcuffed hand, Andal touches the place on his torso where bandages have yet to be peeled from, feels the gunshot wound not hurting as much as days before. Another debt owed to the Emberstetts.
Andal throws on an old, sun-bleached jersey upon his shoulders before he heads downstairs. One heavy step at a time, bleary-eyed and yawning, all before he freezes suddenly, nostrils flaring. That scent. That smell, flowery and wild, like boughs of apple trees had been axed off and brought inside his home … He leaps down the stairs, charges into his kitchen,
“Nana?!”
The sound he makes then is something of a novelty again: a childlike, innocent giggle, as he rushes forth and sweeps his grandmother in an embrace. She’s unchanged, all forest smell, mossy and damp, with underlying tones of hair pomade and old clothes. He steps back only to ask, frowning, “But Ma said you were on a wilderness retreat. When you’d get back?”
The torn-off bedpost thuds gently against the kitchen counter. “Oh.” Andal’s cheeks become apple skins. “This, uh—I can explain. Or, well, let’s ignore it completely. Yeah, that sounds like a better idea.” He lets loose a nervous laugh. Looking at her though, all of Andal settles back in place, growing anew from old roots. “Ripred, I missed you. How are ya’? Tell me everythin’. How’s my aunties?” he asks, country twang fresh under each syllable within the other’s gloriously rural and rustic presence.
He wakes up to silence.
Arms akimbo and the sun warming his bare skin, the silk-soft sheets under him keep Andal hostage for a moment, during which he lets his senses adjust to his new room—the scent of recently-bought furniture, the ludicrous thread count of the bedsheets, and the sweetness of fruits and flowers someone has left behind, but no sound. Nothing, not even a pin drop, all except for the soft pattering of summer snows against a closed window, muted and dull.
Before he used to wake up to chaos: Rowan’s chatter, the loud rumble of Luke’s beloved Cherry, and even some early complaining from Lena. But now the house sits still like a tomb and he feels buried all over again. He stares at the ceiling for a long moment.
Perhaps another hour of sleep?
As if hearing that, some rooster crows in a distance. He groans. Now he has to get up. Everyone in this district knew that it was bad luck if you let that morning symphony fall on deaf ears.
Andal sits up, moves to stretch his legs, and a sudden force yanks him back. He falls in bed again, eye level with the handcuff he’s put around his own wrist.
Now this would be hard to explain if his family lives here. It is also part of the reason why he hasn’t asked in earnest because this secret, this dark and hidden thing, could lead to a flawless rendition of his worst nightmares if it is ever unleashed again. Even now, after another round of antidotes and serums, he could feel an itch in his teeth whenever he ate. He could feel the wolf prowling under his skin, restless paws, hungry mouth …
Andal sighs. “Where did I put the key?” he mutters, palming around for a few seconds. No key. “Darn it.”
There’s a sudden rip as he wrenches his wrist back, tearing off the bedpost around which the handcuff has been wrapped. He stands up. The handcuff still bangles his wrist, the bedpost dangling a few inches down from it, but at least now he’s free to fetch a bowl of oats. With his free, not-handcuffed hand, Andal touches the place on his torso where bandages have yet to be peeled from, feels the gunshot wound not hurting as much as days before. Another debt owed to the Emberstetts.
Andal throws on an old, sun-bleached jersey upon his shoulders before he heads downstairs. One heavy step at a time, bleary-eyed and yawning, all before he freezes suddenly, nostrils flaring. That scent. That smell, flowery and wild, like boughs of apple trees had been axed off and brought inside his home … He leaps down the stairs, charges into his kitchen,
“Nana?!”
The sound he makes then is something of a novelty again: a childlike, innocent giggle, as he rushes forth and sweeps his grandmother in an embrace. She’s unchanged, all forest smell, mossy and damp, with underlying tones of hair pomade and old clothes. He steps back only to ask, frowning, “But Ma said you were on a wilderness retreat. When you’d get back?”
The torn-off bedpost thuds gently against the kitchen counter. “Oh.” Andal’s cheeks become apple skins. “This, uh—I can explain. Or, well, let’s ignore it completely. Yeah, that sounds like a better idea.” He lets loose a nervous laugh. Looking at her though, all of Andal settles back in place, growing anew from old roots. “Ripred, I missed you. How are ya’? Tell me everythin’. How’s my aunties?” he asks, country twang fresh under each syllable within the other’s gloriously rural and rustic presence.
