Post by Jones on Sept 25, 2014 18:37:37 GMT -5
It was raining, again. Why did it always seem to rain? It didn’t matter how long time passed between his visits. Always, it rained.
The man knelt, and he felt how soaked the ground was through his pants. He laid his left hand, gently, against the grass, fingertips spreading outwards to feel the blades, and their wet touch against his pale skin. His black leather cloak shielded him from the rest of the wet. The hood was pulled forward enough over his head to allow blue eyes to peer forward unhindered, to gaze across the meadow, looking for something. In his right hand, which he used to push himself back up to a standing position, was a wooden bow. Silent, he remained. He barely breathed. The only sound was that of the rain.
Suddenly, with a fluid grace, he pulled the bow up and an arrow was knocked, pulled back, and loosed. There was a gentle ‘twang’ to the air, as the line of his bow sprang back. Before the arrow flew from sight, the bow as attached to the man’s back and he was walking forward into the brush, slipping a hunting knife from the sheath at his side.
…But always it rained…
It rained as he skinned his buck. It rained as he put a fire together, next to the lake. It rained as his stomach rumbled contentedly from the meat. It rained when he sat back against the tree, resting his arms on his knees, and look out across the lake, and at the small cabin that sat next to it; dark, overgrown, its windows dusty from its only resident; Time.
How often had his mother told him to leave the place well enough alone? The corner of his mouth turned upward, slightly, in a half-formed grin at the thought. He could almost hear her now, with her hands on her hips, those hard eyes staring holes in him.
He couldn’t help himself though.
Memories came and went. Odd half said phrases from a dozen people he had never met, and never would. Momentary glimpses of strange faces; and even stranger times. Sometimes, there were screams. Always they passed, with the pattering of the rain. He remembered a beach. He remembered trees. He remembered tears; not just his own, as a boy. But his mother’s as well, in between the times she was strong, and hard as steel.
Gavin breathed in a deep breath, closing those blue eyes, as night drew on. He listened to the embers crackle, and the rain. He listened to Lightshadow Lake, and its whispers.
The man knelt, and he felt how soaked the ground was through his pants. He laid his left hand, gently, against the grass, fingertips spreading outwards to feel the blades, and their wet touch against his pale skin. His black leather cloak shielded him from the rest of the wet. The hood was pulled forward enough over his head to allow blue eyes to peer forward unhindered, to gaze across the meadow, looking for something. In his right hand, which he used to push himself back up to a standing position, was a wooden bow. Silent, he remained. He barely breathed. The only sound was that of the rain.
Suddenly, with a fluid grace, he pulled the bow up and an arrow was knocked, pulled back, and loosed. There was a gentle ‘twang’ to the air, as the line of his bow sprang back. Before the arrow flew from sight, the bow as attached to the man’s back and he was walking forward into the brush, slipping a hunting knife from the sheath at his side.
…But always it rained…
It rained as he skinned his buck. It rained as he put a fire together, next to the lake. It rained as his stomach rumbled contentedly from the meat. It rained when he sat back against the tree, resting his arms on his knees, and look out across the lake, and at the small cabin that sat next to it; dark, overgrown, its windows dusty from its only resident; Time.
How often had his mother told him to leave the place well enough alone? The corner of his mouth turned upward, slightly, in a half-formed grin at the thought. He could almost hear her now, with her hands on her hips, those hard eyes staring holes in him.
He couldn’t help himself though.
Memories came and went. Odd half said phrases from a dozen people he had never met, and never would. Momentary glimpses of strange faces; and even stranger times. Sometimes, there were screams. Always they passed, with the pattering of the rain. He remembered a beach. He remembered trees. He remembered tears; not just his own, as a boy. But his mother’s as well, in between the times she was strong, and hard as steel.
Gavin breathed in a deep breath, closing those blue eyes, as night drew on. He listened to the embers crackle, and the rain. He listened to Lightshadow Lake, and its whispers.