[She almost doesn't agree; he sees it, wonders if he's asked too much, asked the wrong question, said the wrong thing. He draws a breath to say something different, but he can't imagine what it would be, though he tries as he eases over to the side of the cot and lowers himself down to it. That is how she begins speaking before he can stop her.
And then he doesn't want her to stop. He listens with rapt attention, follows the rhythm of the story with remarkable ease; there are a lot of twists and turns, a large cast of stars - people - without names or faces or context, but in this form it's easy for him to ignore them until they make sense or to forget about them when they don't. He focuses on the girl who is so bright she cannot see others clearly, he follows her journey, and in the end he comes out the other side with her.
It's the changeover of pronouns - it to he, the second star is given its own nameless identity - that strikes him first when he repeats the words back to himself, but it isn't until he realizes she's not adding more that he begins actively searching for what he'd originally asked for. Ben is in this story, somewhere; he thinks maybe he might have been the darkest star, thinking of how he hunted the men for their strength for his Lady. To gobble them up and give Her strength.
But she - of course she's the star, of course, she shone directly before him but minutes ago and he can see how bright she is - loves him. Somehow. He did not use her up and leave her behind, he can't have. But neither can he be that other star: he is angry, not patient, not kind. He is devoured, and he has no light of his own, and he can show no one how to shine.
...but she knows him.]
Abigail. [Cautious, almost, tentative. Testing out a ledge before he shifts his weight onto it, watching her carefully for the moment the test is failed, the question answered wrong. Watching for the punishment, while reaching ever so carefully for the reward.] How long have we known one another?
no subject
And then he doesn't want her to stop. He listens with rapt attention, follows the rhythm of the story with remarkable ease; there are a lot of twists and turns, a large cast of stars - people - without names or faces or context, but in this form it's easy for him to ignore them until they make sense or to forget about them when they don't. He focuses on the girl who is so bright she cannot see others clearly, he follows her journey, and in the end he comes out the other side with her.
It's the changeover of pronouns - it to he, the second star is given its own nameless identity - that strikes him first when he repeats the words back to himself, but it isn't until he realizes she's not adding more that he begins actively searching for what he'd originally asked for. Ben is in this story, somewhere; he thinks maybe he might have been the darkest star, thinking of how he hunted the men for their strength for his Lady. To gobble them up and give Her strength.
But she - of course she's the star, of course, she shone directly before him but minutes ago and he can see how bright she is - loves him. Somehow. He did not use her up and leave her behind, he can't have. But neither can he be that other star: he is angry, not patient, not kind. He is devoured, and he has no light of his own, and he can show no one how to shine.
...but she knows him.]
Abigail. [Cautious, almost, tentative. Testing out a ledge before he shifts his weight onto it, watching her carefully for the moment the test is failed, the question answered wrong. Watching for the punishment, while reaching ever so carefully for the reward.] How long have we known one another?
How old are we when we meet?