Faithful Pebble
Part Eighty-Eight
Pebble stepped away, one shoulder lifted. "You were a soldier?" she asked.
The wanderer nodded not looking at her.
Pebble paused. Pebble scrunched to her feet. Eventually, she too was kneeling beside him, beside his hammer and nails and screws and screwdrivers and rope and dreams and hope. With the soap tucked carefully between her fingers, between those black and sharp and filth-crusted creatures, she warily inclined forward. She felt the towel crumple beneath her arms. She felt the meadow hold its breath.
The wanderer calmly met her gaze, unknowingly, cautiously. He may not have seen them, her eyes, but he certainly felt them. They pierced him, seared him, searched him judging and evaluating sharply in the surrounding silence. He wondered what they saw. As the sun began to wane, he wondered if he'd ever see them. What did they look like? Did they shine? Sparkle? Did they sit lonely and dead like his heart? Were they still? Were they wise? Were they—
"You don't look like a killer." Pebble's voice interrupted his musings. Her words were soft and thoughtful. They lured his attention gently causing the man to blink and listen, but only for a moment. Absently, he guessed, he imagined that maybe they were brown, like her cloak or blue, like the sky.
No, not brown.
Not black either.
He wished they were blue. He wanted them blue. The man licked his lips.
"But not like his—"
Again, the wanderer blinked. Again, he attempted to pull his thoughts away from his longings, away from the subtle shade of violet indigo, the color his mind settled on, the solemn shadow of the irises ringing about her tiny cottage. He wanted to smile, to ask suddenly if their petals colored her name. Instead, her words wiped that desire away, that dream budding softly in his heart.
"You could tell with his." Pebble sighed. "Papa used to say you can always tell a killer by his stare. There is something in his eyes that warns you, you know, a slight tension, a peeking malice, a scathing glimmer. He had it, but you don't. Your eyes, they're soft. They remind me of that rabbit, you know, the one in the pit, calm and still, brave yet cowardly…" After a moment, Pebble stopped. Her back straightened as she leaned back, as she looked away. Her fingers clutched the soap. The velvet sac withered violently.
"Papa had eyes like yours," she continued softly. "I always thought as kind as they were, everyone should have known the headsmen was lying. He was lying from the start and no one saw it."
I hope you had a lovely January! - Calla