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His smell wasn't here. That he noticed this first felt strange to him. Or perhaps everything about this was strange, and that was simply the first thing he noticed, the first thing his mind would process. His room didn't smell like his own smell, didn't feel like his own room at all. None of this did, despite being so unchanged. And maybe it wasn't?
The blanket on his bed was steeped slowly like sun tea with the warm smell of the living: the sweetness of their skin and the salt of their toil and the iron of their restless blood. The smell of char was preferable to the feeling of unwelcomeness, and so he lit a cigarette. The smoke he blew disturbed the summer's dust motes idling in the evening's sun shafts that filtered in through half-curtained windows. He took a seat on top of that blanket and sank into his aging bed.
Such a quiet room. He'd never known it like this. No one upstairs, no one downstairs. They'd left him alone at his request to consider the place he once knew as his home, and now he regretted it. Lawrence's bed across from his sat empty and made in an unfamiliar way. Neat and tidy. A grown man had made that bed, not a young one still fast and sloppy and eager to leave his room for a hard day's work.
He pulled the cigarette away from his lips and held it out and away from himself in his bandaged hand as he leaned down and looked between his legs at the darkness beneath his bed. Silhouettes of dust-drowned books were stacked like buildings of a sleeping city bathed faintly in the blue light of his eyes. He closed them at the sight and sat up straight and felt the air in his lungs escape.
At the tall, thin window he looked out to see the sun was near to setting and the whole of Westfall was a warm and restful amber streaked with the long shadows of its orchards and tall wheat, and of its people, too. His family stood outside with neighbors talking, mimed by their stretched shadows that betrayed the smallest of their movements. And never had he felt so much like a ghost as when he caught the face of a young farmhand he once knew and saw the way her eyes locked on that window. He drew the curtains, and as he did he felt a tension in his chest. His heart began to beat in time with the thrumming of his runeblades.
Someone was near.
He froze, and from the corner of his eye he saw her. Tall and thin and mousy-looking.
"Anna," he said with a sigh and turned, but got no answer.
She watched him with her arms crossed, her body stiff. He was, to her, as much an unwelcomed thing as he felt. His weapons were no longer alert, but he still felt his heart beating against the stifling pressure of her gaze and their shared silence.
In a whisper he offered, "Everyone can come back in. I'll set the table." He watched her hopefully, but it was a painfully long time before her answer came.
"How is it fair?" she asked, and he could hear her straining to keep her voice from cracking at just four small words.
Confused, he didn't answer. He waited blankly, but his silence twisted up his sister's face in bitterness and he drew back.
"To me? How is it fair?"
Again he didn't know what to say, but he was willing to try. He opened his mouth, but as he filled his lungs with air to speak she interrupted him.
"You didn't want to be a part of this. You left us like we didn't matter to you. We didn't matter to you. And now, what? You regret it? You don't like the consequences?"
He parted his lips and tried again, but she was quicker on the draw and didn't let up for a breath.
"Well there are consequences, and you don't just get to regret it and avoid them. You don't... You don't deserve to be a part of this if you wanted out so badly. It's not fair. It's not fair to Mom, it's not fair to anyone. It's not fair to me."
She stepped away from his door and, unwilling to watch him any longer, moved for the stairs. Without looking back she called out to him, and her voice carried through the hall.
"This place isn't for you!"
The blanket on his bed was steeped slowly like sun tea with the warm smell of the living: the sweetness of their skin and the salt of their toil and the iron of their restless blood. The smell of char was preferable to the feeling of unwelcomeness, and so he lit a cigarette. The smoke he blew disturbed the summer's dust motes idling in the evening's sun shafts that filtered in through half-curtained windows. He took a seat on top of that blanket and sank into his aging bed.
Such a quiet room. He'd never known it like this. No one upstairs, no one downstairs. They'd left him alone at his request to consider the place he once knew as his home, and now he regretted it. Lawrence's bed across from his sat empty and made in an unfamiliar way. Neat and tidy. A grown man had made that bed, not a young one still fast and sloppy and eager to leave his room for a hard day's work.
He pulled the cigarette away from his lips and held it out and away from himself in his bandaged hand as he leaned down and looked between his legs at the darkness beneath his bed. Silhouettes of dust-drowned books were stacked like buildings of a sleeping city bathed faintly in the blue light of his eyes. He closed them at the sight and sat up straight and felt the air in his lungs escape.
At the tall, thin window he looked out to see the sun was near to setting and the whole of Westfall was a warm and restful amber streaked with the long shadows of its orchards and tall wheat, and of its people, too. His family stood outside with neighbors talking, mimed by their stretched shadows that betrayed the smallest of their movements. And never had he felt so much like a ghost as when he caught the face of a young farmhand he once knew and saw the way her eyes locked on that window. He drew the curtains, and as he did he felt a tension in his chest. His heart began to beat in time with the thrumming of his runeblades.
Someone was near.
He froze, and from the corner of his eye he saw her. Tall and thin and mousy-looking.
"Anna," he said with a sigh and turned, but got no answer.
She watched him with her arms crossed, her body stiff. He was, to her, as much an unwelcomed thing as he felt. His weapons were no longer alert, but he still felt his heart beating against the stifling pressure of her gaze and their shared silence.
In a whisper he offered, "Everyone can come back in. I'll set the table." He watched her hopefully, but it was a painfully long time before her answer came.
"How is it fair?" she asked, and he could hear her straining to keep her voice from cracking at just four small words.
Confused, he didn't answer. He waited blankly, but his silence twisted up his sister's face in bitterness and he drew back.
"To me? How is it fair?"
Again he didn't know what to say, but he was willing to try. He opened his mouth, but as he filled his lungs with air to speak she interrupted him.
"You didn't want to be a part of this. You left us like we didn't matter to you. We didn't matter to you. And now, what? You regret it? You don't like the consequences?"
He parted his lips and tried again, but she was quicker on the draw and didn't let up for a breath.
"Well there are consequences, and you don't just get to regret it and avoid them. You don't... You don't deserve to be a part of this if you wanted out so badly. It's not fair. It's not fair to Mom, it's not fair to anyone. It's not fair to me."
She stepped away from his door and, unwilling to watch him any longer, moved for the stairs. Without looking back she called out to him, and her voice carried through the hall.
"This place isn't for you!"
