A/N: MS Word does not seem to work for me no matter WHAT I do with it (reinstall the fucker, download patches, etc.). I'm at the end of my rope with the damn thing, and I've been trying various ways to get my writing out. The problems I'm encountering the most are the lack of spell check and some formatting problems (as you can see with the last chapter, things look a little wonky at some points but I rearranged things for the better part of an hour and that's the best I could do). But whatever. The show must go on and I must continue to churn out bad, overly-dramatic, OOC writing because it HAUNTS MY BRAIN like a two-dollar whore stakes out a street corner. Or something. Flarg.
Oh, yeah. And the titles of my chapters are song titles by various bands--usually, they don't have any direct correlation to what's happening in the chapter. It's usually just the name of the song that happens to be playing on the stereo at that moment in time. ^^ Just wanted to let people know, in case they were curious. Not that anyone probably was, but whatever. Let me have my delusions.
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Leaving London had been a whirlwind of fervent, secretive activity. After doing a bit of research through the internet with his laptop, Amon performed various grumblings and some gun-loading. Robin had watched him with a curious, excited air.
"So? What's Iceland like?" she'd asked him as he sat there, loading his second handgun for use--he rarely ever carried the second one on him, unless he thought he might really need it. Overkill purposes, she assumed, or perhaps for if the first one ran out of ammunition.
"Sparsely populated and volcanic," Amon had replied, dryly. "Not as cold as one would think, either, but still considerably colder than here. Temperatures for the week are right around or below freezing, but there's a good deal of wind. I can't make any sense of the language."
Robin hadn't been able to resist cracking a little joke at Amon's expense. "The language angered you so much that you're up in arms about it?"
He had stopped fussing with the gun, given her a /look/, and then went back to the gun. "No," he'd started, sounding mildly irritated. "I'm up in arms because we have to go out. Both you and I need sufficient winter clothes and I'm not waiting until we're there to do it."
"Oh," Robin had replied, sounding put-out as well. An expedition into the streets of London for, of all things, winter clothes, didn't wave her flag at all. She hadn't really understood why, in the face of all the danger they'd been in while in London before, Amon refused to wait to buy winter supplies--but then again she'd realized that she rarely ever understood /anything/ that Amon did.
So off into danger they'd gone, and shockingly and thankfully, met none. That didn't mean that they hadn't gone about their tasks in London with abnormal speed and an almost ridiculous level of paranoia. (The clerks at one of the stores they'd stopped at more than likely thought they were paranoid schizophrenics, but oh well.) Both Robin and Amon had already, in their possession, enough long-sleeved shirts, boots, and gloves to get them by. Robin was also possessed of a bizarre number of scarves that she'd started to collect somewhere along the way (much to Amon's somewhat chagrin--he had always warned her against collecting too many things, hampering a quick move). What they had both really needed was a good, heavy, winter coat, and they'd gotten those. Robin's was a bit big for her, but after nearly thirty minutes of looking and trying on about fifteen different coats she, Amon, and the two clerks realized that there just wasn't /anything/ that was going to fit the girl properly. Coats were purchased.
"Do you need a hat?" he'd asked Robin as they stood there, and she'd shook her head negative.
"I've got one," she'd assured, and that had Amon grumbling again about how much /stuff/ she was starting to accumulate.
Back to the hotel they'd gone, where Robin had abused room service priviledges as per usual, and eaten like there was no tomorrow. Amon had more picked at his food, seemingly not hungry, and grumbled about how the forks were too small. He had just been grumbly that night, in general. Bored and forced to be distant by Amon's abnormally bad mood, Robin had resigned herself to flipping through the channels on the TV, giggling at British comedy (she couldn't help it, the stuff was so ridiculously silly). Amon had grumbled about how he hated British comedy, how it wasn't funny at all. Robin had commented that she didn't know that he found anything funny at all, and he'd favoured her with another patented /look/, and that had been enough to make her grumble somewhat and turn off the TV.
Sleep came for Robin not long after that and Amon had stayed up all night, as per usual, not doing anything in particular, really. Dawn came and Robin had awoken, and Amon had gone to sleep. While Amon slept, Robin amused herself with more British comedy and had eventually decided right around the time that Amon usually awoke that abusing her room service priviledges one more time couldn't hurt things any. Amon had awoken to Robin munching on eggs and toast, and had motivated himself to munch on eggs and toast as well, smoking cigarettes afterward. He had pointedly ignored the way that Robin had decided that it was in her best interests to have a cigarette, as well.
They'd checked out of the hotel with the same level of paranoid secrecy that they'd checked in and placed themselves into a cab. Bouncing along to the airport, Robin had been struck suddenly by a thought that she'd never had before.
"Amon?" she'd whispered to him, in the back seat of the cab as his slightly wincing eyes (Craft-caused, no doubt) scanned around the car continuously. "How do you get guns through airport security all the time?" she'd whispered even more quietly. The cabbie didn't seem to be paying any attention to them, anyway.
"Very carefully," he'd replied, non-descriptively, and that was that. The mystery wasn't really any more solved than it had been before.
Heathrow International Airport; a giant, British, bustling mess. They'd moved through the crowds unnoticed, like they'd been born to do it; gone through security without any hitches whatsoever (Robin wondering how in the /world/ he did it), checked in, gone to their gate, and then boarded their plane.
That had been that. No problems, no hitches. And now they were on a plane somewhere over a lot of water--the ocean, Robin's stomach churning to look down upon it--en route to Iceland. Robin's stomach churning was partially due to the fact that she was, once again, somewhat surrounded by ocean and the fact that she was in nervous anticipation of meeting Nagira at some point in Iceland. They were flying into Iceland's capital, the only place to fly into in Iceland as far as Robin knew. The city called Reykjavík, a place that Robin couldn't imagine much less pronounce. Turning away from the window, she looked over at Amon, who was actually immersed in a Japanese copy of what appeared to be a Carlos Castaneda novel. Where he'd procured that, she had no idea, but he did look pretty immersed.
"How do you pronounce the name of the city where we're going?" she asked quietly, using the strange hushed-voice that all human beings feel somehow compelled to use while on an airplane. Amon did not look up from his book.
"I don't know," he answered simply. Robin furrowed her brow. "Their language makes no sense," he continued, still not looking up from his book. His mood had improved considerably the moment they were in the air, away from London.
"You don't even have an idea?" she persisted, and he shook his head, turning a page.
"Use phonics," Amon quipped, his bizarre sense of dry humour surfacing. That was how Robin knew he was in a far better mood--hiis sarcasm had returned. She figured that perhaps it was a good thing that he was in a better mood because that meant that perhaps his mood wouldn't end up being /so/ bad when he discovered Nagira. If Amon had still been in a bad mood when they'd landed in Iceland, Robin had actually shuddered to think how much further downhill his mood could have gone when he'd discovered that Nagira would be waiting for them there. "Sound it out," he added, a moment later, causing Robin's brow to furrow further.
"That doesn't help," she replied bluntly, and he shrugged. "What's that book about?" she tried, testing his mood to see how good it actually /was/. If he talked, he was in a good mood. If he talked and his words were more oft than not sarcastic, then he was in a /very/ good mood. This was how Robin had learned to judge his emotions through his words.
"An insane man with terrible drug habits who disguises them as enlightenment, then pawns them off to the general public," came his reply. "Most people at his point are either dead or homeless. I'm impressed that he actually was able to stay coherent enough to write a book."
Robin let out a little sigh of relief, although she was pretty sure that he wouldn't have known that it was a sigh of relief. He was in a /very/ good mood, and that boded well for what would happen ahead.
She was convinced that if he knew that they were flying into Iceland to meet his older brother, Amon would have gotten up, walked to the cockpit of the plane, and turned it back around to London. She didn't think he knew how to fly a plane but she was sure that he would make a point of it to learn how to right then and there, if he knew that Nagira was at their destination.
Nagira. Nagira in Iceland. Them, in Iceland. Someone familiar; a shard from a life long-ago shattered. A shard to grab onto and squeeze into her palm until it cut her and she bled and she couldn't forget it, ever. A little normalcy in an otherwise otherworldishly strange life.
Robin's stomach produced butterflies with the soaring joy of the prospect. Next to her, Amon read on in oblivion.
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There was no /way/, ever, ever, in the whole entire /world/ that the strange noises coming out of the intercom system at the airport in Reykjavík could be a language. Robin simply couldn't comprehend it. It sounded like someone with a mouthful of marbles and no tongue trying to speak Dutch, Swedish, and Finnish all at the same time. Signs in English and the language-that-was-not-a-language were plentiful and scattered about, and boasted words that were longer than her arm like they were nothing. Robin did a double-take, her fervent eye-search for Nagira momentarily forgotten--did that word over there even have any /vowels/ in it? Was that three y's in a row that she saw? "We're on another planet," she murmured to Amon in wonder.
"It would seem so." He was busy adjusting his bag, after having put on his coat; a big black affair with thick lining. His hair was pulled back out of his face by way of a rubber-band, an action that still struck Robin as very strange and unfamiliar even though she'd seen him do it a handful of times by then. He had ears. And sideburns. Very peculiar, indeed. Robin followed his cue and donned her own coat, a similiarly thick-lined dark army green coat, complete with heavy fur lining around the hood. It was big on her to the point of almost obscuring her hands, and she felt like a goofy five-year-old-child playing dress up in her father's clothes. She reshouldered her ruck sack and went after Amon, somewhat unbalanced by her bag (which was growing in weight with the more items she accumulated, true).
Amon was walking along in that loping, stalking style of his, and Robin somewhat bumbled along after him, natural grace hampered by the fact that her coat was too big for her, her bag was too heavy for her, and that her eyes were busily scanning anywhere and everywhere for a tall, semi-carbon copy of Amon. He hadn't specified whether he would be meeting them at the airport or if he would be locating them later, but Robin figured that he would probably meet them at the airport due to the facts that Nagira knew both what time she and Amon's flight arrived, and how hard they were to find in normal life.
Nothing, nothing, nowhere. Customs--deceptively easy to pass, Amon's guns hanging in the back of Robin's mind along with giant question mark. She went through the motions of customs blankly, not really paying attention, fumbling with her assumed passport as she looked around, wide-eyed.
Unfortunately, Amon noticed her ill-ease. "Something wrong?" he asked her as soon as they were away from the customs station, leaning in. Just as she had learned to trust his innate sense for danger, he had learned to watch her somewhat as well--like a cat or a dog before an earthquake. She shook her head, knowing she was going to have to lie and that she wasn't very good at it.
"This place is just strange, that's all," she replied somewhat airily, unable to meet his eyes. Her eyes were too busy looking about. Also unfortunately, what she had not wanted at all happened--Amon hadn't really accepted her explanation and became lightly wary, himself. He more than likely figured that Robin sensed some kind of threat. He would have died if he'd know what she was /really/ looking for.
Amon didn't have long to be in the dark about what was going on because a split second after Robin spotted Nagira standing there, against a pillar in the walkway, staring straight at them, Amon spotted him and actually stopped dead in his tracks.
Robin, too overcome with joy at seeing Nagira actually /standing/ there, didn't even give her brain a spare second to worry about Amon's reaction. Instead she hurried over to her shocked ex-partner's older brother as best she could while being ill-fitted, over-weighed, and excited beyond belief. Nagira's face broke into a smile as soon as he saw her hurrying over to him and Robin dropped her bag on the ground near him and couldn't resist the urge to throw her arms around him.
Nagira hugged her back, apparently ignoring his younger brother for the moment--and probably for good reason--large arms clasped around her small frame. "Hey, kid," he murmured, giving her a little squeeze. "Is that coat too big for you or are you shrinking?"
Robin gave a little giggle, feeling tears biting at her eyes for some strange reason, and fighting hard to squelch them. "It's too big," she replied truthfully, and looked up at him, smiling. God, it felt so wonderful to see someone again--someone, anyone. A reminder that Amon and she were still people, that they were ghosts in the memories of people long-ago, in a land far, far away.
"Huh. I was worried there for a second that maybe Amon wasn't feeding you enough," Nagira cracked, and then looked over her head towards said Amon. "He does not look happy."
Robin, suddenly remembering, suddenly coming back to reality, dared to turn and look at Amon. He was still standing there, except now his arms were folded over his chest and there was a completely blank, unreadable look on his face. Square jawline, flat stare, straight eyebrows--he wasn't just unhappy, he was /furious/. He stared at them for a moment more and then started to walk again--not just walking, but really stalking, moreso than he usually did.
Amon stalked right past them without a word and Robin cringed, dread filling her. Nagira, however, did not seem intimidated in the least, and instead stepped away from the pillar and Robin slightly, looking after his brother. "Oh, /what/?" he called, sounding amused and teasing. "No hug for your big brother?"
Amon's only reply was to stop and turn halfway, looking back at both Nagira and Robin with a look that seemed to tell them that he found their very existence distasteful, and then he resumed walking, not looking back. If such a thing was possible, yet more dread flooded Robin's insides.
"Oh, he's going to go sulk and be difficult," Nagira called after his brother, obviously still not ruffled by the show of anger. "What a way to treat visiting family! Kids these days, I tell you." Nagira dropped his hands which he had cupped around his mouth to help his words travel, and then turned to Robin with raised eyebrows. "I suppose we'd better go chase him down," he said to her, with a sigh. "He's /so/ easily upset, I swear. I wonder, sometimes, which one of you two is the one that's fifteen."
Robin could say nothing in reply. She was too busy wondering if Amon had any patience left for her at all, after this incident.
Oh, yeah. And the titles of my chapters are song titles by various bands--usually, they don't have any direct correlation to what's happening in the chapter. It's usually just the name of the song that happens to be playing on the stereo at that moment in time. ^^ Just wanted to let people know, in case they were curious. Not that anyone probably was, but whatever. Let me have my delusions.
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Leaving London had been a whirlwind of fervent, secretive activity. After doing a bit of research through the internet with his laptop, Amon performed various grumblings and some gun-loading. Robin had watched him with a curious, excited air.
"So? What's Iceland like?" she'd asked him as he sat there, loading his second handgun for use--he rarely ever carried the second one on him, unless he thought he might really need it. Overkill purposes, she assumed, or perhaps for if the first one ran out of ammunition.
"Sparsely populated and volcanic," Amon had replied, dryly. "Not as cold as one would think, either, but still considerably colder than here. Temperatures for the week are right around or below freezing, but there's a good deal of wind. I can't make any sense of the language."
Robin hadn't been able to resist cracking a little joke at Amon's expense. "The language angered you so much that you're up in arms about it?"
He had stopped fussing with the gun, given her a /look/, and then went back to the gun. "No," he'd started, sounding mildly irritated. "I'm up in arms because we have to go out. Both you and I need sufficient winter clothes and I'm not waiting until we're there to do it."
"Oh," Robin had replied, sounding put-out as well. An expedition into the streets of London for, of all things, winter clothes, didn't wave her flag at all. She hadn't really understood why, in the face of all the danger they'd been in while in London before, Amon refused to wait to buy winter supplies--but then again she'd realized that she rarely ever understood /anything/ that Amon did.
So off into danger they'd gone, and shockingly and thankfully, met none. That didn't mean that they hadn't gone about their tasks in London with abnormal speed and an almost ridiculous level of paranoia. (The clerks at one of the stores they'd stopped at more than likely thought they were paranoid schizophrenics, but oh well.) Both Robin and Amon had already, in their possession, enough long-sleeved shirts, boots, and gloves to get them by. Robin was also possessed of a bizarre number of scarves that she'd started to collect somewhere along the way (much to Amon's somewhat chagrin--he had always warned her against collecting too many things, hampering a quick move). What they had both really needed was a good, heavy, winter coat, and they'd gotten those. Robin's was a bit big for her, but after nearly thirty minutes of looking and trying on about fifteen different coats she, Amon, and the two clerks realized that there just wasn't /anything/ that was going to fit the girl properly. Coats were purchased.
"Do you need a hat?" he'd asked Robin as they stood there, and she'd shook her head negative.
"I've got one," she'd assured, and that had Amon grumbling again about how much /stuff/ she was starting to accumulate.
Back to the hotel they'd gone, where Robin had abused room service priviledges as per usual, and eaten like there was no tomorrow. Amon had more picked at his food, seemingly not hungry, and grumbled about how the forks were too small. He had just been grumbly that night, in general. Bored and forced to be distant by Amon's abnormally bad mood, Robin had resigned herself to flipping through the channels on the TV, giggling at British comedy (she couldn't help it, the stuff was so ridiculously silly). Amon had grumbled about how he hated British comedy, how it wasn't funny at all. Robin had commented that she didn't know that he found anything funny at all, and he'd favoured her with another patented /look/, and that had been enough to make her grumble somewhat and turn off the TV.
Sleep came for Robin not long after that and Amon had stayed up all night, as per usual, not doing anything in particular, really. Dawn came and Robin had awoken, and Amon had gone to sleep. While Amon slept, Robin amused herself with more British comedy and had eventually decided right around the time that Amon usually awoke that abusing her room service priviledges one more time couldn't hurt things any. Amon had awoken to Robin munching on eggs and toast, and had motivated himself to munch on eggs and toast as well, smoking cigarettes afterward. He had pointedly ignored the way that Robin had decided that it was in her best interests to have a cigarette, as well.
They'd checked out of the hotel with the same level of paranoid secrecy that they'd checked in and placed themselves into a cab. Bouncing along to the airport, Robin had been struck suddenly by a thought that she'd never had before.
"Amon?" she'd whispered to him, in the back seat of the cab as his slightly wincing eyes (Craft-caused, no doubt) scanned around the car continuously. "How do you get guns through airport security all the time?" she'd whispered even more quietly. The cabbie didn't seem to be paying any attention to them, anyway.
"Very carefully," he'd replied, non-descriptively, and that was that. The mystery wasn't really any more solved than it had been before.
Heathrow International Airport; a giant, British, bustling mess. They'd moved through the crowds unnoticed, like they'd been born to do it; gone through security without any hitches whatsoever (Robin wondering how in the /world/ he did it), checked in, gone to their gate, and then boarded their plane.
That had been that. No problems, no hitches. And now they were on a plane somewhere over a lot of water--the ocean, Robin's stomach churning to look down upon it--en route to Iceland. Robin's stomach churning was partially due to the fact that she was, once again, somewhat surrounded by ocean and the fact that she was in nervous anticipation of meeting Nagira at some point in Iceland. They were flying into Iceland's capital, the only place to fly into in Iceland as far as Robin knew. The city called Reykjavík, a place that Robin couldn't imagine much less pronounce. Turning away from the window, she looked over at Amon, who was actually immersed in a Japanese copy of what appeared to be a Carlos Castaneda novel. Where he'd procured that, she had no idea, but he did look pretty immersed.
"How do you pronounce the name of the city where we're going?" she asked quietly, using the strange hushed-voice that all human beings feel somehow compelled to use while on an airplane. Amon did not look up from his book.
"I don't know," he answered simply. Robin furrowed her brow. "Their language makes no sense," he continued, still not looking up from his book. His mood had improved considerably the moment they were in the air, away from London.
"You don't even have an idea?" she persisted, and he shook his head, turning a page.
"Use phonics," Amon quipped, his bizarre sense of dry humour surfacing. That was how Robin knew he was in a far better mood--hiis sarcasm had returned. She figured that perhaps it was a good thing that he was in a better mood because that meant that perhaps his mood wouldn't end up being /so/ bad when he discovered Nagira. If Amon had still been in a bad mood when they'd landed in Iceland, Robin had actually shuddered to think how much further downhill his mood could have gone when he'd discovered that Nagira would be waiting for them there. "Sound it out," he added, a moment later, causing Robin's brow to furrow further.
"That doesn't help," she replied bluntly, and he shrugged. "What's that book about?" she tried, testing his mood to see how good it actually /was/. If he talked, he was in a good mood. If he talked and his words were more oft than not sarcastic, then he was in a /very/ good mood. This was how Robin had learned to judge his emotions through his words.
"An insane man with terrible drug habits who disguises them as enlightenment, then pawns them off to the general public," came his reply. "Most people at his point are either dead or homeless. I'm impressed that he actually was able to stay coherent enough to write a book."
Robin let out a little sigh of relief, although she was pretty sure that he wouldn't have known that it was a sigh of relief. He was in a /very/ good mood, and that boded well for what would happen ahead.
She was convinced that if he knew that they were flying into Iceland to meet his older brother, Amon would have gotten up, walked to the cockpit of the plane, and turned it back around to London. She didn't think he knew how to fly a plane but she was sure that he would make a point of it to learn how to right then and there, if he knew that Nagira was at their destination.
Nagira. Nagira in Iceland. Them, in Iceland. Someone familiar; a shard from a life long-ago shattered. A shard to grab onto and squeeze into her palm until it cut her and she bled and she couldn't forget it, ever. A little normalcy in an otherwise otherworldishly strange life.
Robin's stomach produced butterflies with the soaring joy of the prospect. Next to her, Amon read on in oblivion.
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There was no /way/, ever, ever, in the whole entire /world/ that the strange noises coming out of the intercom system at the airport in Reykjavík could be a language. Robin simply couldn't comprehend it. It sounded like someone with a mouthful of marbles and no tongue trying to speak Dutch, Swedish, and Finnish all at the same time. Signs in English and the language-that-was-not-a-language were plentiful and scattered about, and boasted words that were longer than her arm like they were nothing. Robin did a double-take, her fervent eye-search for Nagira momentarily forgotten--did that word over there even have any /vowels/ in it? Was that three y's in a row that she saw? "We're on another planet," she murmured to Amon in wonder.
"It would seem so." He was busy adjusting his bag, after having put on his coat; a big black affair with thick lining. His hair was pulled back out of his face by way of a rubber-band, an action that still struck Robin as very strange and unfamiliar even though she'd seen him do it a handful of times by then. He had ears. And sideburns. Very peculiar, indeed. Robin followed his cue and donned her own coat, a similiarly thick-lined dark army green coat, complete with heavy fur lining around the hood. It was big on her to the point of almost obscuring her hands, and she felt like a goofy five-year-old-child playing dress up in her father's clothes. She reshouldered her ruck sack and went after Amon, somewhat unbalanced by her bag (which was growing in weight with the more items she accumulated, true).
Amon was walking along in that loping, stalking style of his, and Robin somewhat bumbled along after him, natural grace hampered by the fact that her coat was too big for her, her bag was too heavy for her, and that her eyes were busily scanning anywhere and everywhere for a tall, semi-carbon copy of Amon. He hadn't specified whether he would be meeting them at the airport or if he would be locating them later, but Robin figured that he would probably meet them at the airport due to the facts that Nagira knew both what time she and Amon's flight arrived, and how hard they were to find in normal life.
Nothing, nothing, nowhere. Customs--deceptively easy to pass, Amon's guns hanging in the back of Robin's mind along with giant question mark. She went through the motions of customs blankly, not really paying attention, fumbling with her assumed passport as she looked around, wide-eyed.
Unfortunately, Amon noticed her ill-ease. "Something wrong?" he asked her as soon as they were away from the customs station, leaning in. Just as she had learned to trust his innate sense for danger, he had learned to watch her somewhat as well--like a cat or a dog before an earthquake. She shook her head, knowing she was going to have to lie and that she wasn't very good at it.
"This place is just strange, that's all," she replied somewhat airily, unable to meet his eyes. Her eyes were too busy looking about. Also unfortunately, what she had not wanted at all happened--Amon hadn't really accepted her explanation and became lightly wary, himself. He more than likely figured that Robin sensed some kind of threat. He would have died if he'd know what she was /really/ looking for.
Amon didn't have long to be in the dark about what was going on because a split second after Robin spotted Nagira standing there, against a pillar in the walkway, staring straight at them, Amon spotted him and actually stopped dead in his tracks.
Robin, too overcome with joy at seeing Nagira actually /standing/ there, didn't even give her brain a spare second to worry about Amon's reaction. Instead she hurried over to her shocked ex-partner's older brother as best she could while being ill-fitted, over-weighed, and excited beyond belief. Nagira's face broke into a smile as soon as he saw her hurrying over to him and Robin dropped her bag on the ground near him and couldn't resist the urge to throw her arms around him.
Nagira hugged her back, apparently ignoring his younger brother for the moment--and probably for good reason--large arms clasped around her small frame. "Hey, kid," he murmured, giving her a little squeeze. "Is that coat too big for you or are you shrinking?"
Robin gave a little giggle, feeling tears biting at her eyes for some strange reason, and fighting hard to squelch them. "It's too big," she replied truthfully, and looked up at him, smiling. God, it felt so wonderful to see someone again--someone, anyone. A reminder that Amon and she were still people, that they were ghosts in the memories of people long-ago, in a land far, far away.
"Huh. I was worried there for a second that maybe Amon wasn't feeding you enough," Nagira cracked, and then looked over her head towards said Amon. "He does not look happy."
Robin, suddenly remembering, suddenly coming back to reality, dared to turn and look at Amon. He was still standing there, except now his arms were folded over his chest and there was a completely blank, unreadable look on his face. Square jawline, flat stare, straight eyebrows--he wasn't just unhappy, he was /furious/. He stared at them for a moment more and then started to walk again--not just walking, but really stalking, moreso than he usually did.
Amon stalked right past them without a word and Robin cringed, dread filling her. Nagira, however, did not seem intimidated in the least, and instead stepped away from the pillar and Robin slightly, looking after his brother. "Oh, /what/?" he called, sounding amused and teasing. "No hug for your big brother?"
Amon's only reply was to stop and turn halfway, looking back at both Nagira and Robin with a look that seemed to tell them that he found their very existence distasteful, and then he resumed walking, not looking back. If such a thing was possible, yet more dread flooded Robin's insides.
"Oh, he's going to go sulk and be difficult," Nagira called after his brother, obviously still not ruffled by the show of anger. "What a way to treat visiting family! Kids these days, I tell you." Nagira dropped his hands which he had cupped around his mouth to help his words travel, and then turned to Robin with raised eyebrows. "I suppose we'd better go chase him down," he said to her, with a sigh. "He's /so/ easily upset, I swear. I wonder, sometimes, which one of you two is the one that's fifteen."
Robin could say nothing in reply. She was too busy wondering if Amon had any patience left for her at all, after this incident.
