"Seheron," She's learned not to expect that name will ring here. The jaws of the Imperium eclipse its prey. "Big island in the north. Many more islands, before ocean and Qunandar. Places in between."
Across the ocean — no, never. She has paused in the middle of gathering buttons in one palm to tip into a jar, intrigued, and now sits up a little straighter in order to lean in. "What's it like?"
Dangerous, she'd told Strange. It is. That isn't what passes before memory's eye:
"Climb a tree and your head finds mist. The bark hangs red with rain, any time of year, but in seasons it is hard to breathe for sweetness of flowers."
"It sounds strange." Beautiful should be the first word here perhaps but it doesn't seem right to say that though the mist does sound ethereal. Looking down to deliver the buttons to the jar, "You're good at describing it.
"Do you feel... like you could be home, here? Somewhere so different?"
"Home is the Qun." That isn't a lie, but it's only one truth. You learn to hold them together, the pieces side-by-side. Dangerous, strange, home. "And your harbor has fog enough."
"Is it?" Gela looks up again. "I don't know very much about it."
And she's tempted to sit and wait for her to answer that prompt instead of pivoting to her past but Gela's missed her opening. She nods and caps the button jar. "Very different. Good-different. I liked travelling and seeing everything I could but it was hard to keep much money and I missed having the same bed."
"I miss my bed. We count beds for home, then I miss this."
There's nothing wrong with the new mattress. The stuffing's cleaner than anything northern, where the humidity rots it all, where sometimes you startle a snake from the holes. But it doesn't smell the same, doesn't yet know the shape her shoulders will wear. And at this age —
She thinks of asking about the money: Why does it matter to you? Does it matter, beyond what it buys?
Instead:
"Best thing you see?" The flash of a smile. "Maybe I find reason to go."
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A sidelong smile in return.
"I do not go this far south before."
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Across the ocean — no, never. She has paused in the middle of gathering buttons in one palm to tip into a jar, intrigued, and now sits up a little straighter in order to lean in. "What's it like?"
The big island, in the north.
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Dangerous, she'd told Strange. It is. That isn't what passes before memory's eye:
"Climb a tree and your head finds mist. The bark hangs red with rain, any time of year, but in seasons it is hard to breathe for sweetness of flowers."
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"Do you feel... like you could be home, here? Somewhere so different?"
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"This is very different from road,"
A prompt. Gela had traveled light.
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And she's tempted to sit and wait for her to answer that prompt instead of pivoting to her past but Gela's missed her opening. She nods and caps the button jar. "Very different. Good-different. I liked travelling and seeing everything I could but it was hard to keep much money and I missed having the same bed."
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"I miss my bed. We count beds for home, then I miss this."
There's nothing wrong with the new mattress. The stuffing's cleaner than anything northern, where the humidity rots it all, where sometimes you startle a snake from the holes. But it doesn't smell the same, doesn't yet know the shape her shoulders will wear. And at this age —
She thinks of asking about the money: Why does it matter to you? Does it matter, beyond what it buys?
Instead:
"Best thing you see?" The flash of a smile. "Maybe I find reason to go."
Vacation duty.