âA tree, wellâŚâ He gave that some thought; what tree would he be, all told? Hawthorn, if you gave the stories credence. Which he would. Stunted, thorny little things. Just so. Fionn swayed a little further away as the evening guard - Henrietta, Henry, H. Kenton, the evening guard - fretted in his general direction.
What was wrong with rivers? Plenty, these days, but that one had seemed fine enough. Why were Americans so bloody petrified of the naked body, anyway? As an artist, he had some feelings on the matter. Prudish censorship, ruined too many works to count. And beaches. How was it that a nation with such a rigid public schooling system failed to give its people much appreciation for the noble art of the poem, eh? What was so wrong with being in the fire service, either? Useful people. More useful than police, in his humble opinion. But you shouldnât just say that. The questions, though. So many questions.
He gave all those a thought. Very seriously, of course. Then - âNo.â Trailing a blue curl of smoke, Fionn carried right along, strolling by that bench. Still fairly scuttered. Still feeling those stitches, all the same. He grimaced, knocking some ash to the pavement. âNo, Henrietta Kenton, I donât believe Iâll trust you to know what Iâm in need of. Itâs not personal, at all, you understand. Always had a grave dislike of being told what to do with myself. Issues with authority, as they say.â He nodded, meaningfully, towards that badge on her hip. And all the toys that came with it. âYou go on and write what pleases you. But Iâve had a poor sort of week, as is. And Iâve known cold, hard beds. More than I care to recall.â Or could, properly, given the circumstances. âNever done my disposition or moral fiber any good, if thatâs what youâre implying. As such,â he pointed off towards the forest, directly. âI will be heading to my rest in those fine, green halls I love the best. Unless you mean to press charges. In which case youâll have to write rather more, wonât you?â Fionn kept sidling away, with a wary eye on her. So he could get a head start, running, if need be.Â
âFine. Then Iâll be on my merry way, Mr. Doe.â Her arms fell to her side and Henri spun on her heel back the way she had come, back to her home to journal about the narcissistic asshole she had come by today who felt he was above outside help. Who found the grass a better comfort than a bed. Maybe he was a nymph, for all she knew.Â