𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄, divinity is a wretched fate.
Dreary Forks is a cramped town beneath a near constant overcast sky, enshrouded in evergreen.
Like every small town, Forks is rife with gossip. Most children's grandparents grandparents had b...
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LOOSELY WOVEN WICKER sags the spine of an antique chair. In it, sits Quil Ateara III and his chin is raised high despite the hunched shoulders of a brittle-boned old man. A grim expression is twisted on heavy-set features, and his sunken eyes latch to a skittish boy from behind narrow framed glasses–Zachary. Wiry tresses of ivory, peppered with silver, are pulled to a thin ponytail, low on Old Quil's head underneath a beaten fisherman's cap that shadows his unnerving face. There isn't much frightening about him, but Zachary is accustomed to his disdain and for whatever reason, Old Quil churns his gut with bubbles of uncertainty. Impatiently, Old Quil grumbles and it surges Zachary forward with a crunch of a dirt path before he rises the uneven steps of his generational home, the loose panels of termite gnawed wood creaking underfoot as Zachary lingers nearby the carved column that steadies the wrap-around porches rooftop.
"Uh, hey, Old Quil," Once he says it, Zachary is certain that he shouldn't have referred to the uppity gentleman as old and his face flushes with the desire for the earth to crack open and swallow him whole. It doesn't and Old Quil doesn't speak, and so Zachary is forced to add, stiffly, "I just, erm, wanted to ask you some questions...about the legends?" Old Quil's narrowed eyes lurch to his, and Zachary refrains from flinching. His glare is hot, wracking along the boy's lithe frame as if searching for something–little does he know that Old Quil tries to find symptoms of phasing. With none, the elder scoffs and he leans back into his chair, raking his dark, wrinkled eyes across the treeline ahead. Zachary bites at the inside of his cheek, before he exhales shakily, "I see things," He blurts, "Mom and doctors say it's schizophrenia only they're real specific and I don't think hallucinations should be like specific to who I'm looking at," Zachary pinches at his sleeve, wringing it nervously as he watches Old Quil from beneath his lashes, "I'm not crazy, Quil."
Silence, and Zachary heaves a sigh with a tilt of his head backward. See, unlike Bella, with the legends of the Quileute tribe and their less than human qualities, all that came to the forefront of Zachary's mind is perhaps they have an answer. Especially since potentially the biggest piece of evidence that Zachary is using against the Cullen family is his sight and the horrors he'd seen against Rosalie–in a time that wasn't their own. Zachary presses his lips in a thin line, and he begrudgingly accepts that Old Quil didn't intend on sharing any words with him, and so Zachary ducks his head and he pushes away from the porch with a sigh. It's as he's trudging away, his hands nestled into his pockets and his eyes dragging in a sluggish manner along the mud of the path that he hears a familiar wispy tenor voice call.
"No," Sharply, Zachary halts, and he spares a glance over his tense shoulder with the lift of his eyebrows, "You're not."
With a gesture of his papery hand, Zachary finds the chair beside him and sits nervously on its edge. Slowly, as if Old Quil prepares for some sort of outburst, he offers Zachary his overturned wrist. Zachary stares for a moment, confused with the webbing of fragile veins protruding from thinning skin where the surface grows more translucent with age. Zachary raises baby blues, eyeing the elder for a moment before Old Quil pushes his hand closer and tentatively, Zachary hovers his above the man's wrist. Old Quil seems to be testing unchartered waters with a bow of his head on slouched shoulders to connect their eyes as Zachary's fingers lace around his narrow wrist. Nothing happens at first, just the rustling of autumnal leaves in the breeze and skeletal branches crunching underfoot.
