Author's Notes: OMG! How long has it been?! Ok so I'm back in action, well trying to get back in action with my fanfics; I'm determined to finish what I started.
I've had this idea since I wrote Crimson Report 1 so I thought it was time to finally get my butt in gear and write it down. It was supposed to just be a one-shot, but a lot like many things I write it started getting longer and longer and more complex and so it's going to be split into two chapters.
I'm clearly very rusty. I'm not satisfied with the way this fic is written at all so far but I just kept struggling to improve it so I think this is the best it's gonna get. Apologise for that, hopefully if I can get back into the swing of things my writing will get back up to scratch.
Enjoy.
The icy rain began to beat against the shimmering lake's surface, reeds and lily pads trembling at its might. The water danced and sprang to it's brethren from the sky, reuniting jubilantly. These prancing droplets were gently shifted however as a great regal figure parted the depths of the Moonflow, plodding delicately upon the supple riverbed, the liquid lapping against its trunk-like legs. On occasion it would unravel its long nose to scoop up a ball of fluid and pour it smoothly into it's mouth, or perhaps shoot it out again and spray it across the lake top; mirroring the rain in playful wonder.
Unfortunately, though a beautiful sight indeed the Moonflow was this evening, the inhabitants of the shoopuf's carriage were anything but at this present time. The hypello coachman was an exception, neat and pressed with a surprisingly crisp and straight jacket and slacks, his passengers on the other hand were bedraggled and dilapidated. They were the last customers of the day, two young men, one tall and gangly, and the other short and wide in stature, both seated quietly, tired, in the darkness towards the back of the little pod. The hypello would glance back from time to time only to see their murky silhouettes against the raging weather. He had tried to start conversations but ultimately it wasn't worth the breath, whether the pair were too exhausted for speech or they were simply being rude, all his exerts had either gone unheard or simply been cut off by a blunt response. With this in mind, he had felt it better to just remain silent and leave the brooding gentlemen to, well brood, and deliver them to the other side of the Moonflow as quickly as possible. This basic plan was now coming to its closure as his loyal steed mounted the eastern shore. The hypello overheard the tall man mutter agitatedly about the shoopuf's jolting mannerisms and, with a smirk, took up his feathered crop and with it gently stroked his partner of sorts behind the ear gratefully. Anything to irritate these coarse customers even more, he did not care if they ever returned to his services; it was a niche selection of customers he and his troop didn't need.
'Wooooo!' He called, tugging forcefully on the reins and giving his shoopuf three sharp taps on the shoulder with his crop.
A motley crew of three other hypellos babbled and lowed as they lifted mats and ramps and cranked rusted handles. The familiar metallic cage arose to the carriage, bare and dirtied from a day's hard work. The coachman sighed and felt that pettiness couldn't be so great as to be so impolite not to wish these travellers farewell.
'Time tooo dishmoount.' He soughed, 'Goooodbye, thank yooou.'
The black, drenched figures swept past; not a word. The cage dipped a few inches as the larger of the two men entered and the taller one released an annoyed tut. One of the hypellos on the ground began to re-crank the handle and, with loud clunks, rope began to thread steadily through the rickety pulley above until the cage hit the steel platform at the base with a deep clanging sound. The cage door creaked open once again as the figures strode out, keeping heads facing forward and ignoring the furiously bowing hypellos and their bleats of, 'Thank yooou! Thank yoou!'
It was here, after some brisk walking, did the two figures break into a steady run, past the notice board with its soggy papers and over a small, but none the less, perilous log bridge that hovered over the creek. They did not cease again until within the protective arms of the large imposing willows and elms.
'For the love of Yevon!'
A sodden and wiry scarf hit the moist earth with such force that oozing lumps of mud flung upwards into the trees causing a flock of birds to become flustered and soar away.
'What kind of ff-' the tall man bit the inside of his lower lip, attempting to prevent the profanity, 'ff- weather do you call this!'
The fat man threw his podgy arms above his head but was still hit by the debris of wet dirt as they rebounded back.
'Geez, Logos look what yous did!' He griped, running one of his huge fists over his face to peel off the muck. 'And yous ruined that scarf too.'
Logos simply scowled. The hefty man blinked a few times, bemused, needing a little more time than the average person to catch on to this response.
'Won't yas mum be mad?'
The scowl contorted into a twisted knot of muscle and skin, teeth bearing and bloodshot eyes piercing through tight eyelids.
'Oh! Oh yeah,' the bulky man said, rubbing his neck bashfully, 'yous can't go home. Sorry.'
'Well done, Ormi, you've finally crack it. After I've been grousing, fretting and bellyachey about it for the past day and a half you finally understand. I think this is a new intellectual breakthrough for you; congratulations.'
'I said Is was sorry. Is got used to blocking yous out when you're complaining.'
Ormi waddled forward awkwardly and looked down sadly at the tattered and mudded scarf. With his tubby thumb and index finger he pinched a corner of the feeble fabric and held it out in front of him before returning it to Logos. He swung it towards Logos definitely and, reluctantly and sulkily, Logos took it, laying it lengthways in his palms. Ormi shoved his hands into his arm pits and with chattering teeth gazed out from their shelter at the rain, Logos simply peered down at the line of material in his hands with a very vacant and mournful expression.
It was a dreadful feeling; having no security. So much condensed chaos had occurred in the last four days, after approximately a month after the Lady Yuna's victory over Sin and that betraying bastard Lord Seymour, Yevon made the conscious decision to disband and reform. This decision had been cast to perhaps implement a new culture to accompany Yevon since, understandably, their image had been brutally bruised and scarred from the recent events. It was announced the faction was to be politically restructured with a whole new hierarchy; the current one was to be totally scrapped and although fashioned similarly with: Captains, High Captains, Elite Captains, Head Captains and so on, all those currently appointed would be pillaged of their titles and new contenders for the positions would be considered. In addition to this it was decreed that no longer would Yevon be ruled by Maesters and priests, since they now held connotations of deceit; instead a Praetor would lead the sector. Logos and Ormi, regardless, were doubtful that this would bring much overall change.
Of course all this reorganising would take time so, four days ago, every single one of the city's soldiers and recruits (excluding highly held officials) were dismissed. This had angered many considering this request to take leave had been executed without pay so it seemed the commonality of Yevon's society found themselves now without jobs or funds. Yevon was simply unable to pay up however, with such destruction and commotion occurring there, in plain, they had not a scrap of gil to be spared. They each had been given two days to organise their belongings and get out.
Making soldiers extinct from the streets was not a problem that should have bothered Ormi or Logos, considering this was the chance they had been waiting, praying for; a chance to take their leave without appearing cowardice or weak. It was arranged between the two of them that they would hunt for a new occupation, one as sphere hunters. In the mean time, since they were unsure of how easy or difficult it would to acquire work, Logos would return back to his family home in the most easterly part of Bevelle and after gathering his things Ormi would join too since there was plenty of spare room and Opal Menkaura (Logos' mother) very much enjoyed Ormi's enthusiasm for her cooking. However, it was also established between the pair that they needed to begin their search as soon as possible, thusly they would but drop off their items at the abode and, after perhaps some food and a change of clothes, head out again immediately.
A change of clothes was vital, since Yevonites were almost constantly in uniform soldiers didn't see the point in bringing spare clothes when stationed in the military accommodation. Besides, when one did go out in one's personal time there were just so many servicemen about the area that no one really saw much point in making the effort to look different from their work personas; the bars were always filled to the brim with men in armour soaking themselves in magic liquids until they were drowned for the evening. Logos' mother, anal and somewhat protective, always nagged Logos to take a change of clothes despite these arguments and since the deaths of Ormi's grandparents he had absolutely everything he ever owned squeezed into his minute dorm. Unfortunately Logos only ever grabbed the grottiest and most simplistic items he could find, often an oversized t-shirt handed down to him from his elder brother and a pair of slacks with rips lining the ends of the legs. Ormi on the other hand had just not possessed an excuse to buy any personal clothes for the past few years and thus had none. Would you have guessed it as well, the army were demanding their uniforms back, probably to redesign them to support their new culture. Before leaving their dorms they had managed to discover and old shirt of Ormi's that, although tight, still fitted him and succeeded in making him appear half way respectable, however trousers were a different story all together, it would have seemed Ormi had gain some considerable weight over the past couple of years and thus poor Ormi had to spend some of his last dribbles of gil on a new pair of smart trousers.
Logos had left Ormi to rearrange his possessions, deciphering what to keep and what to discard, and made the journey back to the Menkaura household. He'd arrived by cab, the commission split between himself and Kanye, his brother, four years his senior, who'd accompanied him to, obviously, return home until the 'New Yevon' formed. The house, narrow but very tall, much like it's inhabitants, was perched on the top of a hill surrounded by lush forest along with five other houses to create a cosy and, it must be said, very wealthy cul-de-sac. The Menkaura children had spent the entirety of their lives here, the sound of waves oscillating through the trees from the coast, but fifteen minutes away, had always been a refreshing sonance for Logos' ears to drink in on every one of his returns; it was a sound he missed deeply every time he had to go away.
His elder brother took great strides up the gravelled path, greatly anticipating the reunion that awaited him; however Logos did not move, he stood at the gate, staring blankly ahead. He'd suddenly felt every essence of joy and excitement trickle out of his body, through his bony fingers, and could almost sense it splattering on the stones around him. He felt a sputtering green flame within himself; envying his brother's exuberance, Logos instead was left behind with uneasiness and apprehension. It was today he would have to tell his mother he was leaving Yevon, for good. Negotiations between Logos' mother and himself had been very turbulent throughout the past year, namely because she was lonely now; there was no one there to make her supple. A year ago, Logos's father had past away due to illness and since then Opal had become unspeakably protective and smothering towards him. There was a theory that this was because, out of all the Menkaura children, Logos was the most like his father and his mother obviously wanted to nurture this. However Logos had always yearned for independence, in fact as he grew older he demanded it; he preferred solitude and this had caused much bumping of heads between the pair. Then this, this would make Opal upset and distressed and although Logos never considered himself a 'good son' one must agree that decent children do not relish seeing their parents unhappy. Also, Opal had always held Yevon as her utmost priority and encouraged her boys to do the same; Logos had been slipping away from these ideals since he was about ten years of age and this in tandem made Opal concerned that she'd done a poor job at raising her son or that there was something wrong with him. There was truthfully nothing wrong, only Logos had always identified with his father more and the rest of his brothers all seemed to be more balanced and empathised with both parents equally; he just stuck out like a sore thumb is all, every family must have a black sheep. But the point was, with all this frustration, silent dislike and discomfort, Logos wasn't entirely sure how his mother would react to his news, he was almost certain she'd be unhappy and probably angry but he couldn't decipher as to what degree. It was anyone's guess.
Kanye had gripped the round and bold brass knocker on the front doors with a sturdy hand and had beaten it against its plate barely three times when the door was swung open with an energetic force. A spindly, middle-aged woman with a somewhat withered face stood before them, hair knotted into a tight and exceedingly tidy bun on the crown of her head, perfectly plucked black and preened eyebrows, plump lips and clad head to toe in loosely hanging, deep green dress. She also wore a wide, beaming grin. Without a breathe she flung herself at the pair, embracing them in such a way that Logos feared he may suffocate, and squealing about how jubilant she was to see them.
'Come in! Come in!' She shrilled merrily.
The pair were booted inside clumsily, into a long hallway paved with marble tiles and lined with white-washed walls presenting family portraits and heirlooms and towards the back there was an elegant spiral staircase embroidered with a rich red carpet and sparkling black and gold railings.
'Ooo! I have not been able to settle myself once I was enlightened of your return.' Opal tattled as she nabbed the coats from their backs and set them upon the rack. 'What by Yevon made your peregrination so persistent? It did bait me.'
Opal had always spoken in an overly formal and almost archaic fashion, using sentence structures and syntax Logos was sure hadn't been familiar in decades and exerting advanced vocabulary that often confused his younger brothers.
'Ah ah ah! Look at your hair!' Opal gasped snatching Logos's arm and sneering at his wind rustled hair. 'When did you last have it cut? Tis a dishevelment! An eyesore!'
'I think you're overreacting a bit, mother' Logos replied matter-a-factly.
'You've been parading around like that! Here, grant me to rectify it.'
'Oooooh.' He moaned as he watched his brother creep away down the hallway too the kitchen where he could hear children's voices chatter.
Much like a young child himself, Logos attempted to slither out of his mother's clutches and away from her snapping hands but alas she had had many years of experience and escape was simply futile; Logos came to the conclusion that it was best to stay put and allow his mother to finish. She threaded a few rivalling hairs back behind his ear.
'There, much more respectable.'
She gave him another wide, toothy grin and patted him on the back a few times, ushering him into the kitchen. This room was much wider and expansive than any other in the house and thus was used very frequently by the family; at least two members could always be found here. Today all four of his younger brothers, all under the age of ten, could be found at the table, squabbling over breakfast foods and overstretching to claim cutlery and beverages. Kanye had now placed himself at the head of this table and was lazily chewing a piece of toast. Feeling rather awkward at the sight of his brothers, fully aware that he hadn't seen them in over a year; inwardly shocked at how much they'd all grown, he decided to direct his focus towards the back of a kitchen where a woman much tinier and slightly older than his mother stood, in front of heaving sink of dirty plates. Una was the Menkaura's housekeeper, an absolutely miniature woman with a weather-beaten and droopy face and mousy brown hair held back scruffily by a bandana. She was extremely kindly and loyal but painfully senile, Logos recalled when she first came she could barely speak a word that they could comprehend; his father always had an idea that it was some form of Gypsy tongue she spoke. Still feeling that great discomfort Logos blurted chirpily,
'Hello Una!'
She flinched and with ungainly mannerisms turned around to face him, eyes floating about in their sockets before settling on his form and then finally giving a stunted bow and saying nothing. A small head at the table, round and delicate with floppy black hair, spun round. It gasped and before he knew it, Logos found a nine-year-old child hitting him square in the chest and that head being buried momentarily into his shoulder before resurfacing and grinning at him. Following this cue he also discovered a six-year-old clutching his ragged slacks and a seven-year-old desperately trying to show him so form of craft work. One of the greatest mysterious in life for Logos was why his brothers enjoyed his company so much. He fully admitted that he was grouchy, ill tempered, irritated easily, sarcastic and critical, he would have never described himself as good with children in the slightest, that was one little strand of his father's DNA he hadn't received and he generally found children pest-like and even a little disgusting. Regardless his younger brethren just fawned over him; perhaps it was because Kanye, arrogant and proud, point blank ignored them and Logos intensely resented these qualities, at least to the degree Kanye exhibited them. Speaking of which Logos could see a mild glower painted over Kanye's face, aggravated and addled as to why his brothers weren't fascinated by his yearly achievements. Children simply aren't interested in medals and certificates; they're more inspired by creating art out of food, as Isaiah was demonstrating.
'Right, everyone complacent?' Opal trumpeted, her heels clopping into the room. 'Oh Aslan do detach yourself, look, you're furrowing Logos's shirt.'
Logos spotted his moment.
'Actually, mother, I needed to change anyhow,' he plonked a, now somewhat disappointing looking, Aslan back onto the tiles. 'I'm going to make the assumption that my clothes are actually where they're supposed to be this time; in my wardrobe…in my bedroom?'
The last time he had come home his mother had attempted to turn his room into some form of recreational room with ridiculous things in it such as billiard and card tables, a harp from Yevon knows where, several easels and some noisy and ghastly arcade machine that one of his brothers must have begged for.
'Isaiah please, resituate that renaissance back onto the refrigerator; give your brother a trice to remit. And Zahi, desist, his shirt is already spoilt let his trousers be!'
Thrusting her arms towards them she steadily batted the younger siblings away.
'Mother, did you hear what I said?'
'Una, may I request a handful more eggs for the breakfast table?'
'Mother?'
'I did heed you Logos, but honestly you only just arrived. Must you really redress now?'
Logos pursed his lips and gave his mother a very drained and peevish expression.
'You know how finicky you were with my hair just now?' He said, pointing to his head, his hair had already fallen back out of place.
His mother simply looked at him with a raised eyebrow, puzzled.
'What exactly are your opinions on this?'
He sighed and tugged at the ends of his shirt and pulled it up towards his breastbone. Zahi gave a loud snort, spitting milk across the table, Aslan tried his best not to do the same with his mouthful of cereal and Kanye gave a long, low groan of distaste.
'Ahhoh!' Opal cried.
This particular pair of ripped trousers had been sent to Logos from his maternal grandmother, paired with a letter that informed Opal that her second eldest was far too skinny and needed to eat more red meat. They were now suspended, sluggishly around the middle of his thighs and threatening to delve lower, this exposed a wonderfully tattered pair of boxer that Logos would have rather not shown off since they held very secret and saucy stories. He delivered the same drained expression.
'Please?'
His mother didn't move for a moment, hands clasped around her mouth and a horrified expression, the little clean freak nudging at her under the surface of her pale skin. She slowly lowered her hands so that only one was at the side of her face and the other wagged towards the hallway.
'Up, up, up!' She clucked, telling him to go upstairs.
He slipped his fingers into the slacks and zestfully yanked them back up to well above his waist where they immediately slumped again back to his hips. Allowing his shirt to flop back down he slunk towards the doorway and began to climb the staircase, his mother following at a brisk and busy trot. She eventually bustled through in front of him, tottering along the upstairs corridor, fumbling for something, Logos craned his neck to see as he advanced on the top of the stairs and heard an odd jingling noise of that of a key on a chain. On ascending the landing Logos saw that his mother was bumbling about inelegantly before his bedroom door, he approached, and unfortunately his mother hadn't considered that Logos was older now and six inches taller than her. He approached cautiously, cocking his head to peek over her shoulder. He heard her curse meekly under her breath (she never used straight foul language) as she tried to gripped the key with a shaking hand and slot it into the lock.
'Goodness aren't we the little operative.' He jeered.
She squawked loudly in alarm and a hollow 'chink' echoed through the upstairs as the key hit the floor. She was now spread, back against the door wearing a very incriminating and embarrassed expression. Logos simpered,
'You never were much good at hiding things.'
He bent down and dangled the metallic ring of the key on his index finger, motioning it towards her. Slowly, she took it, biting her lip and eyes examining the carpet. After a few moments, she lifted her head and gave him a small but sweet smile and giving his arm an affection pat, turned around and open the door. Logos wondered whether telling his mother may not be such a deadly action after all.
Logos didn't need three guesses to know why his mother had locked his room. Just as he expected, his forlorn and forgotten room was littered with towers of familiar items, to be exact, his father's familiar items. There were old clothes, suits, uniforms and so on, a chess board he had enjoyed playing at, herculean amounts of medical books and journals, photos and studies he had written, even a painted portrait of him and Opal that Logos had remembered originally being showcased above his parent's bed. Logos esoterically knew that his mother could never find the heart to dispose of any of these special treasures but he also realised that she could not bear to face them either; she'd lock them away in a room that was rarely opened to salvage her heart from it's abyss of pain and misery lest it consume her. Even now her features seemed much more fragile and grey, expression queasy and unsettled. Her head did not swivel on its joint to survey the gems the room had to offer, only fixed dead ahead at the musty wardrobe door at the far right of the room. Her fingers curled round the handle ghost-like and with almost no effort whatsoever she open the door and entered into the tiny secular square room that was his old wardrobe. There was a notable lack of dust in here (compared to the bedroom), Logos had half expected to be eaten by a ghoulish flock of moths as he entered but he identified that Una had clearly snuck in to clean this room often so that all his clothes stayed fresh and tidy; he appreciated this tremendously.
'Now then,' his mother began a little more upbeat since she could no longer see spectral debris of her husband, 'what shall we drape you in?'
She groped and rustled through all his old garments.
'Any white shirt is good, they're all indifferent oh! And those slacks, those navy slacks dad gave me a couple of years back should be suitable.'
Opal lurched, a sort of inward gag as the noun 'dad' began to quiver through her yellow bones. She turned away bit by bit, edges of her mouth trembling and without a word retrieved the items of attire requested. After a few minutes she had them collected in her hands and, as if they were hot coals, thrusted them hurriedly into Logos' so that she needn't look at those trousers for a second longer.
'Tsh tsh,' she peeped, 'you don't wish to clad yourself here, you'll get unwell,' she lurched again, 'from all this fluff and detritus. You can dress in my chamber.'
'Well, er, while I'm here I should collect the rest of my clothes don't you think?'
She blinked at him with tired and watery eyes.
'We can do that task later can't we? You'll be here for several weeks, we have a great duration in which we can bestow your belongings some place else. Which makes me muse, I shall set up a chase for Una downstairs and you can retire in her room until you return to Yevon. I'm still ruminating on where little Ormi can sleep.'
'Little..?' Logos muttered.
She made a 'ssshhh' noise at him that was almost drunkenly. He exhaled heavily, empting his body of all negative images and thoughts, leaving but one; his mother would be passionate and benevolent to his proposal.
'Mother, look, I have something to tell you. I'm not moving my clothes to another room.'
She eyed him, curiously.
'I'm packing them.'
Her eyes, still glossy, inspected his face, fishing within him to grasp some kind of subtext.
'I-I'm,' his words gurgled in his throat, he swallowed, 'I'm not going back to Yevon.'
The liquid coating her eyes turned to ice and her mouth shaped into an ungainly 'o' but twitched and flinched in doing so. Gradually it formed into a gnarled grimace from in and out came short and stammered breathe. A single strand of hair, grey, pinged out of the bun.
'What?' She rumbled.
'I'm packing, taking some things and going with Ormi to find a new occupation.'
'Why?'
He sucked his teeth. He kept picturing this sort of mirror like lens, quaking and shuddering.
'Because Yevon is, it's just no-'
'There is no just reason,' she hissed, 'that question can never be answered by a mortal man. It is futile to provide a conclusion.'
'But, now mother listen to me, just please stop getting all incensed and see this from my perspective.'
'Your perspective?' She screeched. 'There is no other view there is only Yevon's view!'
'Mother, don't!'
'Yevon is infinitely just, knowing and powerful, he is but the one! This family has thrived upon his deeds and taught to refer to them with the highest respect!'
She inhaled sharply, clenching her hands into throbbing fists, pulling every muscle taught until she was but a curled up ball. The mirror was in spasm, palpitating, jerking in aggressive and extreme motions. It shattered, she lunged towards her son.
'You should proudly die for him!' She spat. 'He comes first before all other lusts! Still you fail to consent, you useless, wretched, insufferable child! Runt!!'
'Stop!'
'What would your father think?' She leered.
Logos gaped at his mother's interrogative. His chest heaving, sickening needles piercing in and out of his lungs. That flame burned again but this time it burst into a roaring, savage fire and radiating a deep, blood red. This gape contorted to a glower. He approached his mother, bringing his face threateningly close to hers.
'My father,' he seethed, 'would think me a very noble and truthful man, for recognising mortal man's perception of Yevon is malicious, prejudice and evil.'
A firm, taught, leathering sheet hit Logos' cheek brutally. He had buckled and when he gazed up again he saw his mother's hand held firm cross her body.
'Foul tempter,' she growled, 'you acquire a crippled image of your own father. He was true and loyal to his cause, he stayed in Yevon's right hand until the day he died; his soul is permitted to rest in peace and you disrupt its slumber.'
Logos caressed his burning cheek and reregistered himself so he stood level before his mother again.
'Your soul, it is weak and feeble, evil spirits feast upon such fools as you! Not one comparison can be made between you, a filthy stranger, and my compassionate husband!'
She stormed out of the wardrobe and proceeding to pace round the bedroom heatedly, like a coeurl locked in a cage. Logos' body was numb, he daren't move, he just remained, sifting his fingertips over the fresh bruise and running his tongue over the tops of his bottom teeth.
She slammed her fist upon the chess table. Dust flared up and dashed upon her fuming form.
'Be gone! You leech! Lest you infest us; plague my precious kin with your bribing and toying ways! Yevon frowns upon the Menkaura household, a stain smeared across our family tree. A runt! A runt! He shall scream.'
Logos did not flinch.
'I said be gone!!'
He waited a minute, staring despondently at his raging mother. He stepped out and with noosed breath and sad eyes walked towards the door. He stopped, eyes darting to his right, a scarf, his father's, he snatched it up and wrapped it around his neck.
'Don't touch anything! You thief! Give it back!'
She grappled for it but he retreated away sluggishly.
'You wish me to leave? Then let me have it.'
She rasped.
'That was my husband's'
'I know.'
She grated her teeth viciously, snarling.
'You tease me to bribe you?! Sickening! But it is a sin I shall perform if it is for the greater good! Be..gone!!'
Logos obeyed.
'Heathen!' She howled as he began to descend the stairs. 'Heathen! Heathen! Heathen!!'
He still recalled the flustered and shocked expression on Aslan's face as he raced to greet him at the bottom of the staircase. However Logos did not recall saying anything at all to him, he simply marched on, with his drabs of clothing, out the door. He still recalled the far off sound of foam smashing against the shattering rock; he still recalled it fading away into nothing.
He was now garbed in that very shirt and those very slacks he had left with. Ormi was huddled against the tree, rubbing his hands thoroughly on his imposing biceps, shivering. Logos folded his father's scarf once and tenderly wrapped it back round his neck; that vacant expression on his face.
