04-06-2008, 11:45 PM
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OUR SKREET. <3 Speech in Welsh. :O
WHEN I WATCH YOU, WANNA DO YOU, RIGHT WHERE YOU'RE STANDING.
After two days and three nights of forging their way through the land, Z and Ana had finally stumbled across the lifeless human city. In the early hours of the morning, they had started at one end of the territory and had by now worked their way to the other, to one of the last streets of Halifax. It was certainly not the biggest, but it also wasn't too small, and it seemed to have everything they would need. Things it didn't have could be foraged from nearby apartments and stores, or even the old university, which was bound to have an item or two of value tucked away inside. But this street...it would do just fine. Although the buildings were aged and uncared for, they appeared inhabitable, and Zacor was sure that with a spot of effort, he and Anathra could tidy up the place and even make it homey; in the least, it would feel a lot more like home than Wales ever had, and hopefully they would have more time to mend this broken street in Halifax than they had had to exploit the treasures of the beached ship that was now miles away, perhaps even burned to a bare skeleton's hull speckled by cinders. There had been no time to gather their belongings before the panic of the fire had swarmed them; from the books they had stolen from his father's own collection, to the dream catchers made of bones and feathers, they had lost it all.
But maybe that wasn't a bad thing. They would be forced to find new literature to pass the time with, and the nearby university probably held greater (and more truthful) wonders than the Pagan hogwash that had entertained the elder Sian. And as for the dream catchers made for Ana by Conway...maybe she would be forced to move on with her life, because he was as tangible to her now as the ashes of the crafts he had given her, crafts birthed from quick and careful fingers that could by now be dirt for the worms. Maybe Conway had even attempted a return to Bleeding Souls upon hearing from some wanderer that his heart was there again at last, but had then been choked on the poisonous gray gases and scathed alive until life itself escaped him. It would be a poetic justice in a way, because it wasn't at all right that Zacor had been dragged along to Nova Scotia only for Ana to long for Conway still. Although Zacor was not the needlessly arrogant sort, he didn't fancy the idea of being only an accessory character to an already written love story, or a sideshow attraction on Anathra's plight to find the other boy. It wasn't a matter of pride, but one of emotion; a candle whose flame flickered for only a moment in time in the heart of another wasn't something anyone would long to be.
Conway had been a fool anyway. If he loved Anathra, he should have followed her back to Wales. When he didn't, he had metaphysically (if not also literally) stepped aside, allowing Zacor to pursue any flight of fancy that struck his imaginative mind. Here they were, even, Anathra and him, about to make a home for themselves with no de le Poer boy in sight. Hah. Things came and then were gone, and Conway was undeniably now in the category of the latter. If he did find his way back to Bleeding Souls in good shape, he would have to be wise (or foolish) enough to assume the various bodies scattered about were not of any relation to his dear Ana, and continue forwards in pursuit of the new lands. His love for her would have to be true if he would be so persistent, but it would take him days or even weeks to find them, and by then, Zacor's budding crush might have grown enough to be serious competition. And if it wasn't, the normally apathetic boy would for once not let his wishes go down without a good fight.
As the muddy brown and lovely red duo made their way down the street that would be theirs, Zacor's shapely pianist's hand inched closer to Anathra's until the two were close enough for his spindly fingers to touch her shorter ones in a subconscious gesture of "like" just before they reclaimed their spot at Z's side. "[So,]" the awkwardly tall boy said with a grin, "[What do you think?]" He was talking about the brick and wood of the buildings, their windows covered with ancient fog, the unevenly smooth and rocky pavement of the road beneath their feet... He was talking about the street. He ran a hand through his bright fauxhawk, adding to the flatness it already possessed, and with a subconscious eagerness uncharacteristic of his usual self, he waited for her reply.
RIGHT ON THE FOYER, RIGHT ON THIS DARK DAY, RIGHT IN PLAIN VIEW.
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After two days and three nights of forging their way through the land, Z and Ana had finally stumbled across the lifeless human city. In the early hours of the morning, they had started at one end of the territory and had by now worked their way to the other, to one of the last streets of Halifax. It was certainly not the biggest, but it also wasn't too small, and it seemed to have everything they would need. Things it didn't have could be foraged from nearby apartments and stores, or even the old university, which was bound to have an item or two of value tucked away inside. But this street...it would do just fine. Although the buildings were aged and uncared for, they appeared inhabitable, and Zacor was sure that with a spot of effort, he and Anathra could tidy up the place and even make it homey; in the least, it would feel a lot more like home than Wales ever had, and hopefully they would have more time to mend this broken street in Halifax than they had had to exploit the treasures of the beached ship that was now miles away, perhaps even burned to a bare skeleton's hull speckled by cinders. There had been no time to gather their belongings before the panic of the fire had swarmed them; from the books they had stolen from his father's own collection, to the dream catchers made of bones and feathers, they had lost it all.
But maybe that wasn't a bad thing. They would be forced to find new literature to pass the time with, and the nearby university probably held greater (and more truthful) wonders than the Pagan hogwash that had entertained the elder Sian. And as for the dream catchers made for Ana by Conway...maybe she would be forced to move on with her life, because he was as tangible to her now as the ashes of the crafts he had given her, crafts birthed from quick and careful fingers that could by now be dirt for the worms. Maybe Conway had even attempted a return to Bleeding Souls upon hearing from some wanderer that his heart was there again at last, but had then been choked on the poisonous gray gases and scathed alive until life itself escaped him. It would be a poetic justice in a way, because it wasn't at all right that Zacor had been dragged along to Nova Scotia only for Ana to long for Conway still. Although Zacor was not the needlessly arrogant sort, he didn't fancy the idea of being only an accessory character to an already written love story, or a sideshow attraction on Anathra's plight to find the other boy. It wasn't a matter of pride, but one of emotion; a candle whose flame flickered for only a moment in time in the heart of another wasn't something anyone would long to be.
Conway had been a fool anyway. If he loved Anathra, he should have followed her back to Wales. When he didn't, he had metaphysically (if not also literally) stepped aside, allowing Zacor to pursue any flight of fancy that struck his imaginative mind. Here they were, even, Anathra and him, about to make a home for themselves with no de le Poer boy in sight. Hah. Things came and then were gone, and Conway was undeniably now in the category of the latter. If he did find his way back to Bleeding Souls in good shape, he would have to be wise (or foolish) enough to assume the various bodies scattered about were not of any relation to his dear Ana, and continue forwards in pursuit of the new lands. His love for her would have to be true if he would be so persistent, but it would take him days or even weeks to find them, and by then, Zacor's budding crush might have grown enough to be serious competition. And if it wasn't, the normally apathetic boy would for once not let his wishes go down without a good fight.
As the muddy brown and lovely red duo made their way down the street that would be theirs, Zacor's shapely pianist's hand inched closer to Anathra's until the two were close enough for his spindly fingers to touch her shorter ones in a subconscious gesture of "like" just before they reclaimed their spot at Z's side. "[So,]" the awkwardly tall boy said with a grin, "[What do you think?]" He was talking about the brick and wood of the buildings, their windows covered with ancient fog, the unevenly smooth and rocky pavement of the road beneath their feet... He was talking about the street. He ran a hand through his bright fauxhawk, adding to the flatness it already possessed, and with a subconscious eagerness uncharacteristic of his usual self, he waited for her reply.