(no subject)
Crutches are a bitch.
They're decently made, considering. They're reasonably comfortable and they don't feel like they're about to collapse under his weight. But they're crutches, and the last time he had to deal with them was when the Sister had brought him one, when he was on his back on a bed of straw with one leg there and the other lying out in a field, or blown to zeros and ones.
He had thrown it across the room. He still remembers the dismay on her face and when he does he feels ashamed.
He hadn't thrown these. It's just a break. It's just for a few weeks. It'll heal.
Which is all well and good, but in the meantime he's going out of his mind with boredom. No building. No swimming. No hunting. And all the bookshelf is giving him are medical journals and stuff on computer repair.
Except for one thing, which might have been mercy on the shelf's part: a battered and extremely old copy of The Second Jungle Book, which he's sure he read but doesn't remember any of except for something about a white cobra and something else about a pack of red dogs.
It's as good as anything else, he supposes. And it is.
He's sitting a little awkwardly at the kitchen table with it open in front of him and the crutches propped up to the side, a cup of coffee and a piece of one of Eostre's cakes next to him. And just for the moment, he's not thinking about boredom or guilt.
"There will be no killing? My tusks were red at the Sack of the Fields of Bhurtpore, and I would not wake that smell again."
"Nor I. I do not wish even their bones to lie on the clean earth. Let them go and find a fresh lair. They cannot stay here. I have seen and smelled the blood of the woman that gave me food--the woman whom they would have killed but for me. Only the smell of the new grass on their doorsteps can take away that smell. It burns in my mouth. Let in the Jungle, Hathi!"
"Ah!" said Hathi. "So did the scar of the stake burn on my hide till we watched the villages die under in the spring growth. Now I see. Thy war shall be our war. We will let in the Jungle!"
He reads and the coffee starts to chill, and he doesn't notice. He remembers reading the story as a boy and imagining that he was Mowgli out behind the house, stripped to to the waist, scratched and sunburned, ducking in and out of the line of hedges with wolves at his side.
He wonders if Peter would like it.
[ooc: Wiiiide open. Tag as you will.]
They're decently made, considering. They're reasonably comfortable and they don't feel like they're about to collapse under his weight. But they're crutches, and the last time he had to deal with them was when the Sister had brought him one, when he was on his back on a bed of straw with one leg there and the other lying out in a field, or blown to zeros and ones.
He had thrown it across the room. He still remembers the dismay on her face and when he does he feels ashamed.
He hadn't thrown these. It's just a break. It's just for a few weeks. It'll heal.
Which is all well and good, but in the meantime he's going out of his mind with boredom. No building. No swimming. No hunting. And all the bookshelf is giving him are medical journals and stuff on computer repair.
Except for one thing, which might have been mercy on the shelf's part: a battered and extremely old copy of The Second Jungle Book, which he's sure he read but doesn't remember any of except for something about a white cobra and something else about a pack of red dogs.
It's as good as anything else, he supposes. And it is.
He's sitting a little awkwardly at the kitchen table with it open in front of him and the crutches propped up to the side, a cup of coffee and a piece of one of Eostre's cakes next to him. And just for the moment, he's not thinking about boredom or guilt.
"There will be no killing? My tusks were red at the Sack of the Fields of Bhurtpore, and I would not wake that smell again."
"Nor I. I do not wish even their bones to lie on the clean earth. Let them go and find a fresh lair. They cannot stay here. I have seen and smelled the blood of the woman that gave me food--the woman whom they would have killed but for me. Only the smell of the new grass on their doorsteps can take away that smell. It burns in my mouth. Let in the Jungle, Hathi!"
"Ah!" said Hathi. "So did the scar of the stake burn on my hide till we watched the villages die under in the spring growth. Now I see. Thy war shall be our war. We will let in the Jungle!"
He reads and the coffee starts to chill, and he doesn't notice. He remembers reading the story as a boy and imagining that he was Mowgli out behind the house, stripped to to the waist, scratched and sunburned, ducking in and out of the line of hedges with wolves at his side.
He wonders if Peter would like it.
[ooc: Wiiiide open. Tag as you will.]