Wildlings

38: Subalterns

Sannah hated Saint. She hated him for who he was, she hated him for who she was, she hated him for not being Faro, she hated him for not being Bayim.

She hated him because despite how good they were to her, despite ultimately and conclusively knowing that Faro and Dierdra were better people than Saint was, knowing beyond doubt that a life attached to them would have so much more good in it than a life attached to him, she was ecstatic to be going home.

And he was home. The only home she had, the only place she wanted to be. Since she'd left that warehouse, Sannah had been living inside a bell jar, thick, dirty glass between herself and the rest of the world, nothing and no-one having meaning or consequence.

And now, now here he was in front of her, and that bell jar had shattered, and every tiny shard speckled her skin, and she was just a bloody, mutilated, glittering stump. But she was alive, and she loved him. Numen, she loved him so fiercely it flayed her.

He was paler, his features sharper, his eyes more shadowed than she remembered. He seemed less tall. He'd grown in her mind, during his absence, into a giant. She was shocked to be standing in that dank doorway facing someone the size of a mortal man.

He nodded, didn't say hello, his eyes meeting hers for only a fraction of a millisecond. She didn't know if it was him or her that broke the contact first. He stepped back to let her in the door.

"Dai and Rade?" She couldn't even form the question properly.

"At hers."

She sat on the corner of the sofa, awkward and unsteady. "You're going to Caledia?" Her voice was shaking.

He turned away, towards the kitchen cabinets lining the opposite wall. "You wanna tea?"

She nodded, then realised he couldn't see her. "Yes please." So formal.

"I've got a job. For Raph. A pickup."

Sannah realised the tea was just a ruse, an excuse not to have to look at her while they spoke, to keep his back to her while he imparted this information.

"And I remembered you said that's where you wanted to go. Your sister and that."

He turned to face the room as soon as he'd finished speaking. Passed her a hot mug, sat at the table. He stared at his screen, not looking up.

"I do." Sannah looked down, at her drink, at her knees. "If you're going. I'd..."

"It's zen. I'm going anyway." His tone told her not to get excited, not to presume that this favour meant anything bigger.

Saint was still looking at his screen, ignoring her. Like it was nothing that they'd rubbed, that he'd gone, that she'd gone too. Like that sort of thing, that lack of care, was the ordinary stuff of everyday life. Totally indifferent.

In her mind's eye, Sannah saw Dierdra and Faro, their kindness, their concern,  their closeness, so clearly. That's how I'd like it to be, she thought. But I don't deserve that. I deserve this.

Saint began to pack his pipe, his eyes still fixed on the screen laying on the table, as if she wasn't even there. Yet it was such a comfort, watching him perform that familiar movement! After lighting and inhaling, and still without looking straight at her, he extended his arm slightly to offer the pipe to Sannah, even though she'd never accepted it before.