Idylls of the King

Jefferson Soul · 08-11-2010, 04:03 PM

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PAPA TO THE RESCUE.

Geneva had yet to return to her room in the ranch house central to the pack territory. Now that he and the olive-eyed goddess had made up and were on speaking terms again, it occurred to Jefferson how empty the ranch house was by his lonesome though he lived there alone before Geneva had even become a part of Phoenix Valley. Each creak of the floorboards beneath his feet echoed a lonely sound in the halls and rooms, crying like depressed whines. He learned to hate the sound quickly, at times commenting on it to Geneva before realizing she wasn't there to listen. When he'd had enough, he would leave the ranch house and stalk around the borders grumpily. He had only discovered recently that she had been staying at the lighthouse; Jefferson had assumed she would move back soon, by why hadn't she yet?

And so after the repeating scene again that morning when he spoke unknowingly to himself, Jefferson had burst from the ranch doors into the bright August sunshine and lazy summer warmth. He had forgotten the wonders of nature in his period of depression when he and the Whilom were separated, and now the old appreciation for the green of the trees and blue of the sky flooded back over him with the coolness of rain. His moodiness washed away quickly, breathing in the freshness of the air and basking in the sunlight. Phoenix Valley experienced such periods of peace and prosperity several times before (usually followed immediately by some sort of tragedy), but none seemed to match the calmness recent events had granted his heart. The brute felt less stress than he had in months, though the memory of his son's bright eyes hung in the back of his mind. It was hard to be a father when barely given the opportunity.

To the ocean he meandered, two legged and a smile at his scarred lips. The breeze came and went, whipping at times and still at others; in the proximity of the sea the wind picked up, the scent of salt whisking past his nose. Perhaps it would be best to visit Geneva, to see how she had been doing welled up in that lighthouse off the coast; it was not too often he made boat trips to the outer territories, as irresponsible as it may have been. Wind rocked the boat as he forced it over the sea, and at the opposite shore he parked it on the sand. Jefferson moved with caution, hesitating to alarm her of his presence as he walked the ways around the lighthouse toward its entrance, but froze instead when he reached the door. Whimpering caught his ears over the rush of the sea, his green eye falling upon the small gray bundle on the sand at the water's edge. The pup flailed this way and that, crying pathetically.

"Pripyat?" Jefferson hastened to the boy, breathing relief at the troublemaker being only a small, useless crab. Green eye glowed; his bad arm extended from its sling and held the boy's shoulder to keep him still while he pried the small crustacean from its grip. Once free, Jefferson glared at the crab, straightened up, and threw it ruthlessly into the sea. It skipped a few times on the sea's crest like a pebble, then sank into the water and out of sight. Pausing, the cyclops simply glanced back down at his son, still whimpering from pain. "Uh," he stammered, blatantly unsure how to proceed, "it's gone now, all right? It's back in the ocean."

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