First-Person Reliable Narrator Lamentation
Author's Notes
(in his sleeping quarters, on an evening only a few moons ago. the two men enjoy a classic "sleepover"/"slumber party". the discussion turns to faith)
the service. For mostof us nowadays we don't really well do that sort of thing. Perhaps! Only though, I spend most days watching the little skinny hand go round-and-round the clock's pretty face while counting blessings. (To who?) To who? Well, well... Well... Well... I would be ashamed to confess. (Please, do me the honour.) At that point, between the two, there was a wordless smile half exchanged between shadowed eyes and his glimmering sawed teeth. The dead language that only they could seek.
He reaches forth for him with both arms outstretched, grasping his blister-red knuckles with serene gentleness. Dovelike, he turns his hand just so his palm faced the plastic-night ceiling overhead. And his fingers begin to move, tapping as they gallop in a faux motion across the swordsmans' calloused hand.
I hope to find one, one day. I hope—I hope not in a cage or pen. She could be in a mountain forest. And I'll see her, and she'll look to me, and I hope she isn't the last one left, then. But, that is what I was put on this planet for. I would serve her and she would serve myself. I don't think... His hand-horse goes still, and suddenly, the thoughts of the boy consume him.
(I see. That sounds nice.)
Does it?
(Yeah. If you did I'd come with.)
The boy retreats inwards further. Something about his words was upsetting him, though he didn't know, and he didn't know why. But under that bright yellow face, his soft and dark lips were still turned upwards, eyes softer, though only staring at a spot on the ground rather than anything meaningful in the room. Anxiously happy.