(no subject)
It had been less than a week since Mohinder's disappearance, and the wound was still a fresh one for Alcuin. He still had Mohinder's letter folded in his pocket, though he knew that he should put it away, for each time he reread it his melancholy simply rose to the surface.
He knew that he had suffered no greater loss than so many here on the island, and that there were even those who had had loved ones ripped away more than once, as he had. But for Alcuin, it seemed as if as soon as one wound began to heal, another one ripped open. James (once, and then again), Giacomo, Will, even Ysandre, and now Mohinder... and all of this laid on top of the hole in his heart left by Anafiel Delaunary's death.
He was grateful that he still had Rupert, and yet could not help but think how long it might be until he was gone as well... or Daniel, or Jack, or... Elua forbid, Phedre or Joscelin. It was not a way that he wished to think about things, and he was trying so hard to live each day with appreciation for what he had, but right now he missed Mohinder with a tangible ache.
But it had been less than a week, and he thought that he was justified in a little wallowing, or at least, quiet contemplation. And so this morning he sat on the beach with his sketch book, doing both. It was early, and then the sun was still low in the sky, so he sat with no shirt, his marque bared to the light, feet burrowing into the damp sand in front of him. He would draw Mohinder's face if he could, but he was not so skilled an artist, and so he drew a bodhi tree instead, the same design that he had once painstakingly drawn on Mohinder's back in black marker.
He knew that he had suffered no greater loss than so many here on the island, and that there were even those who had had loved ones ripped away more than once, as he had. But for Alcuin, it seemed as if as soon as one wound began to heal, another one ripped open. James (once, and then again), Giacomo, Will, even Ysandre, and now Mohinder... and all of this laid on top of the hole in his heart left by Anafiel Delaunary's death.
He was grateful that he still had Rupert, and yet could not help but think how long it might be until he was gone as well... or Daniel, or Jack, or... Elua forbid, Phedre or Joscelin. It was not a way that he wished to think about things, and he was trying so hard to live each day with appreciation for what he had, but right now he missed Mohinder with a tangible ache.
But it had been less than a week, and he thought that he was justified in a little wallowing, or at least, quiet contemplation. And so this morning he sat on the beach with his sketch book, doing both. It was early, and then the sun was still low in the sky, so he sat with no shirt, his marque bared to the light, feet burrowing into the damp sand in front of him. He would draw Mohinder's face if he could, but he was not so skilled an artist, and so he drew a bodhi tree instead, the same design that he had once painstakingly drawn on Mohinder's back in black marker.
