coldhands

[Giuseppe Agapito]

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The day's light had faded quickly from the seascape, leaving a dusky twilight in its place. Residual ash from the forest fires still hung thick in the atmosphere and had been the cause of a most brilliant gold-and-crimson sunset. The beauty had been lost on Giuseppe, who thought dully that the ashes of his son and his son's mother might very well be mingling with those of the thousands of burned trees. Today marked the end of his third day of searching, and the large Italian male was beginning to feel the icy hands of despair grip at his chest. Three days had turned up nothing but evidence that some had survived and fled the fire; he had no word if any of those trails belonged to his kin or not. There were a thousand 'ifs' that plagued him now, each broader and more painful than the last. IF Maria and Beppe had survived the fire; IF they had fled this way. IF they had even been in 'souls at all at the time of the blaze. IF he could find them, IF they wanted anything to do with him anymore, anyway.

After a physically and mentally exhausting day of fruitless searching, Giuseppe set up camp on a sheltered beach. Currently, a driftwood fire cackled merrily, its salt-ridden flames flashing a curious blue-and-gold. A pair of fish were roasting on a spit above the fire. They were nearly done cooking as indicated by crisp, dripping skins and a delicious, pungent odor. Although the amber-eyed luperci's stomach was rumbling, the thought of food held no appeal. The world had turned dismal; the anger he'd once dined on had turned to cold worry in his belly. He knew he should eat, to keep up his strength. Weakness led to inaction, and inaction had never found anybody.

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