i worshipped at the altar of losing everything )
He had been like her, once.
He had delighted in the company of others, feasted on conversation and let it fill him up.
And these things were enough.
He had been happy to forfeit himself to others without asking for anything in return. He had been selfless and kind and bright-eyed. But he has nothing left to give. The useless heart still beats around the shape of a name he has not spoken out loud in years. And he has wandered so long now that he lost his warmth somewhere along the way. He wouldn’t know where to look for it even if he wanted to.
He carries this heavy thing, the fact that he’d watched his sister die and had fought as hard as he could and it hadn’t been enough to save her. It has eroded the marrow in his bones and made its home there. It lives in the tired, aching joints and in each hemisphere of his brain, every chamber of that useless heart. Perhaps he’d lost his warmth there in that great stretch of desert, maybe he’d left it in the sand beside his sister.
He smiles but it still does not reach his eyes. It slants and lists and he nods because he understands. Or he did once. She averts her gaze long enough to make him wonder why but he doesn’t ask, knows better than to throw it into sharp relief. He has no desire to embarrass her by making her aware that he’s noticed. So, he merely watches for a moment before he looks away, too.
He hears her sigh but goes on studying the way the river thrashes itself against the shore. “I don’t think it’s juvenile,” he says. She is younger than he is, he knows, significantly so but he knows better than to believe that automatically makes her juvenile. He rolls his shoulders. “The truth is the truth,” he adds and shifts his focus back to her face.
“I’m sorry that I’m not better at making conversation.” There, that same sad smile, tinted slightly in the shade of his apology. “It’s been a long time since I last had someone to talk to.”
