a quick one before the eternal worm devours appalachia

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

❦

It must have been from when their mother was still alive. It must have been when he was still little, the last time he was sitting, leaned against her shoulder, touching the stained pages of a story. Their mother's books were in moth-bitten tatters in the attic by the time Ira was two. Outgrown like milk teeth, pages molding from a leak in the roof. It must have been from before the winter.

Lu runs his fingers along the spines of the books in the library. He walks row to row, touching the imprint of titles. His arm doesn't hurt anymore. Woke up to a syringe being pushed into him, crook of his elbow, bicep wrapped, clean and soft. He feels fine, numb to the bone.

There's whispers floating from the corners. Quiet creak of steps. Isn't it so funny. All the time to read, to eat, to sleep. Leisurely march towards death, twelve tin soldiers. He loops back around the row again.

The soft creak follows him. Lu keeps walking very slow. They had a barn cat once. For the vermin. Mangy little flea-covered thing Evelyn carried around. Half-dead most of the time until it heard the scutter of mice in the dark. He stops, hand on the spine of a book, then starts walking again.

They weren't allowed to feed it. Evelyn got in trouble for that once, but never again.

He listens for the footsteps.

It needs to stay hungry.

Don't let it taste from the table. Don't let it know what is good.

He stops in the middle of the row, pulls a stack of books out, reaches through the shelf, and fists a handful of a shirt, yanking. The books scatter onto the floor, Lu looks at the notebook in his hands, his face framed by the volumes of folk tales.

What are you doing.

[tick 12a / calla]

❦

He only has one hand.

From Ten. Home of cow-rearing, and of the wolf man, and of those messy, messy family trees.

Branwen, Lucius. Seventeen. One hand. Nothing from the Reaping, too much commotion over the first name. There was the declaration, and Andres screaming Hawke, and then the Keeper interference. The 10a page is nearly full. Placidity, yes, and acceptance, yes, but having something to actually fight for. That's where the danger comes in.

Is there more danger in not knowing - the second page, the second name, it's so empty.

He stops. Tick leans against an empty lectern, dizzying patterns in the floorboards, he strains to hear through the sudden ache between temple and jaw.

The sound of the books falling is too loud, and the way that the shelf rocks when he’s pulled into it, the uncomfortable lean, the way the edge digs into his stomach. His fingers scrabble over the fist in his shirt, blisters touching the knuckles as he freezes.

Wide-eyed, until he gets it under control. Breathless, until he remembers to breathe again. Another note - simple aggravation. The hypothesis shifts.

What are you doing.

Small beat.

“Looking for a book.”

And then the first one he touches, he’s grasping it blindly, thumb tight to the cover - “Found it.”

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

❦

Lu doesn't let go, dragging him through the shelf another inch until he drops the notebook, reaching for the fist knotted into his collar. The dust settles. The resistance is mild, less than picking up a rain soaked cat. It's very quiet again.

Looking for a book, he says.

He has his other hand on it. Lu shifts his gaze incrementally, tilting his head because the cover is upside down. Staring.

It's a man. It's a man without a shirt, invisible wind in his hair. A sword in one hand, clutching a maiden with the other, her fingers splayed across his chest, looking over her shoulder, dress hitched up to the thigh. Gold lettered title. The Wild Knight. Tagline underneath: Can't fight his sword.

Okay.

Lu just keeps staring, feels his grip loosening. Eyes sliding back onto the boy's face. Okay. He crept along the row to read a novel like. Like that. Strange. Fine. 

"...Okay."