(no subject)
It's always been true: he feels better in the woods. It's hot here, but not the aggressive humidity of Kentucky in the summertime. It's a cooler, moving heat. He's always been good at moving silently through the trees, and the clothes that has from the box are worn and comfortable. The boots are his own. He's got a bow slung over his shoulder and bandages still bound around his ribs. It's going to be a while before it's safe to shoot, before he can move his back that much, but it feels good just to have it in his hands. He's got a handful of newly made arrows in the quiver at his left shoulder.
He feels like himself again.
For now, though, he's squatting a length of rope in his hands and setting a snare. It's one that he designed himself, one than he knows so well that he can tie it with his eyes closed. Looking at the undergrowth, the spoor, the signs, he's got a good idea of what kind of game there is here. And he needs to feel useful. He needs to do something or he's just going to feel useful forever and keep thinking about all of the things that he's lost.
He closes his eyes and ties the snare, just to prove that he can.
He feels like himself again.
For now, though, he's squatting a length of rope in his hands and setting a snare. It's one that he designed himself, one than he knows so well that he can tie it with his eyes closed. Looking at the undergrowth, the spoor, the signs, he's got a good idea of what kind of game there is here. And he needs to feel useful. He needs to do something or he's just going to feel useful forever and keep thinking about all of the things that he's lost.
He closes his eyes and ties the snare, just to prove that he can.