That part is a fucking mystery.
I just know that, in the moments like these, of quiet and yawning boredom, it’s harder to not think about her. My mind drifts, lured by hormones, to a place of pain—
Then my wrist is yanked.
And I’m pulled out of my spiral as Arwyn hands over the tether.
I turn a frown on Samick, a sort of dazed look as I stumble back from the mental abyss.
His stare cuts me.
A pale, crisp hue, not unlike the inside of an apple.
There’s nothing particularly unkind about the look he gives me as he ties the tether to his belt. He just stares at me, like he’s working out a puzzle.
Then he jerks his chin to the flames of the campfire.
Stuck in routine, I’m a silent shadow at his side, moving towards the warmth of the flames.
The closer I get, the more I melt.
The relief ribbons out of me in a faint breath before I slowly sink to the damp grass.
I let my lashes shut on the bliss of the campfire, the familiar flickering of flames, the crackling kindle, the embers that pop.
I hug my knees to my chest and ride out the pangs in my gut.
A lull stretches over the camp.
Meals are dished out, fae flop onto their backs and find their dreams, notebooks and journals and parchments are spread out, some warriors write and sketch, maybe penning letters to loved ones back home.
Mika rests.
Shark finds himself down at a campfire where bottles of wine are being passed around.
Rust is down there, too.
Watching.
Always watching.
Beside me, Samick draws out his sketchbook from the satchel, I guess so he can draw and scrap the same garden over and over.
He never finishes it.
Never seems appeased by his work.
Every time, he gets as far as the drop of a cliff into rippling waters, then he stops.
That’s when his hand hovers, moving around the page, but never adding anything, like he knows it needs more, but just can’t quite decide on what and where.
But that is an hour or two in.
For now, he’s starting fresh, on a blank page.
He starts where he always does—at the round pavers leading through tufts of grass and wildflowers.
Then he’ll sketch a pond and rows of garden beds. It all makes for a lovely unfinished garden.
