(Untitled)
Puck has now decided that, amnesia or not, he is never talking to strangers again. The burns on his hands are quite enough to ensure that.
He never did go inside again since that night, and though by now he is quite hungry for something that is not some variety of flora, it's not as if he can actually hold onto anything long enough to eat it. (The ( Read more... )
He never did go inside again since that night, and though by now he is quite hungry for something that is not some variety of flora, it's not as if he can actually hold onto anything long enough to eat it. (The ( Read more... )
Perhaps Havelock should really have learned his lesson about hanging around outside in the evening, but apparently he has decided not to take prior experience into account. Besides, caution and curiosity are a very even balance.
"Bad day?"
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"Good even," he grumbles once he's recovered himself, shooting Havelock a wary look. He may be pretty, and he may have the support of at least three others in saying that his name is Puck, but that does not make him trustworthy in the least.
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"I shall take that as confirmation," he says with a slight, dry smile. "How many days now? Four? Five?"
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The smile, however dry, is returned with another wary look.
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It's really hard to tell.
He shrugs, seemingly unbothered. Longer than some other Milliwaysian occurrences, then. "How have you been finding it?" he asks, like he hasn't been watching the various affected patrons with interest.
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This is nearly a growl.
Puck pulls his fingers from the mud-- it does only a limited amount of good-- and wipes them gingerly on the bottom of his shirt.
"How do you fare?"
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"As ever," he says, "Which is well enough."
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In case you couldn't tell, Puck is in full-on sulk mode.
The shirt is rapidly getting dirty, and the wiping is starting to sting his palm (and, by extension, his wrist and forearm); Puck tries the grass instead.
Better, but not by much.
"I don't suppose," he says after a moment, sounding very bored, "that you have been telling the truth about me, after all-- insofar as you've told me anything, that is."
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"I could say I'd lied precisely half the time," he says, "But then, that would be a lie itself. I don't suppose there is much way for you to tell."
Slowly he begins to walk closer, hands in his pockets. (One, incidentally, closed around a knife hilt, but that's just habit.)
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His expression sharpens slightly as Havelock draws nearer.
"The more fool I."
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He reaches the lakeside but makes no move to sit or relax in any way.
"What happened to your hands?"
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Though the pain has dulled, the marks have not yet healed in any particularly noticeable way.
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"You touched iron?" he asks at last.
And not just touched; picked up, by the patterning. He had been under the impression that the amnesia would leave Puck at least residual memories enough to know what he was...
"Why?"
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"How do you know?"
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Besides, not much else would cause that burn-effect, nor such evident irritation after the fact. If it weren't so cruel, it would be fascinating.
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There's little point in even asking; Puck is not expecting to believe what Havelock says, however compelling it may be.
But the question, it seems, will out.
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