Survive.
That's all Sparrow's known.
Ice. Snow. And the Cold War.
The never ending winter that's made captive the people of Icadia. Death knocks on everyone's door, lowering the population while robbing them of their joy.
Joy. Another commodity S...
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"Miss! Could I interest you in any—"
"No."
"What about—"
"No."
"I'll cut you a deal! Half price if you buy two—"
Grinding my teeth, I gave the pest of a man a less-than-friendly look, causing him to stumble in his moves to approach me further. When my glare didn't let up, he backed away, finally giving me peace, or something likened to it. The fresh memory of Montgomery's tale made it hard for me to be at ease, even in the slightest, and the last thing I wanted was some man selling scarves badgering me—not after what I just heard.
Men. Woman. Children.
"You hellbound bastards," I grumbled, the stiff bones of my fingers cracking as I formed a fist with my hands, wishing I somehow could have prevented the slaughter of those innocent villagers.
Well, that's a new development.
The longer I stayed involved with these people, the harder it was for me to remain unattached, beginning to invest in their futures. I didn't like it, these new...feelings. With them present, I was slowly drifting away from my comfortable existence as a wanderer—a loner. Even as I maneuvered through the crowded marketplace, my mind would revert back to them. The people I've met.
Heath. He saved my life on more than one occasion, and I couldn't deny that out of everyone I'd met, I wanted him to stay alive the most. He could take care of himself, of that I was certain, but in the small time I'd spent with him, I knew he was the type to endanger himself for the sake of others. It was admirable, but also the kind of trait that got good people killed. It's also what kept me from wanting to get to know him more. I didn't need another person to grieve over.
Then there was Lydia. The sweet, kindhearted woman was too fragil for the world she lived in. If not for her grace of healing, I couldn't imagine this being the life she chose. If not for her grace, she'd be dead already.
It wasn't a thought I was proud of, but it was a narrative I couldn't shake since Montgomery shared what had happened to her.
"Pardon me," a young mother apologized when she accidentally bumped into me while trying to keep up with her two children. They were running through the busy streets without a care of what or who they collided with.
With a slight nod of my head, I continued walking, looking for the god-forsaken vendor with coats for sale. As I searched, I felt a growing sadness building within, one that didn't source from me. The longer the sorrowful knot developed in my gut, the more evident the reason became.
Oak? Are you okay?
My eyes still shifted from face to face and cart to cart, but my mind was fully occupied by my distant shadoe, and her subtle cry for attention. Her aura did noticably brighten at my response, but her spirit was still obviously down.
