world eater

India’s wrist hurt. She tried not to heal anything too permanent–anything that would take her away from the stand at the fish market or hold her up from everyday life too badly. She’d only really done it one time, when she healed a little girl’s broken arm. It had taken her out of school for a week and plagued her for a month. Uncle had been so upset. Still, India was loathe to let any hurts go unhealed. When an elderly man approached her earlier at the market, politely and a little sheepishly asking her to heal his twisted wrist, she accepted almost without thinking about it. The rest of the shift had been dreadful, and Uncle had lectured her sternly when she got home, but she didn’t mind.

There she was, freshly showered and walking the streets of Colby. She and Uncle had gone out for dinner together. He elected to drive home–he offered to bring her along but, as usual, she smiled and insisted on walking. India always felt a little more sure with the ground beneath her feet. She popped in and out of a few shops before deciding on really heading home. However, her attention was instantly drawn by the sign at the front of Secondhand Books. She stopped short–the book store usually closed far earlier. India grinned, instantly excited. She’d lost hours upon hours browsing the shelves, picking out piles of novels to read in her free time. 

India slipped into the shop with a new spring in her step. The aching in her wrist seemed a little lighter, now that she had such a wonderful distraction. She didn’t know how much time she’d have to browse and she wanted to make the most of it. That being said, she was curious to see who was working. India walked towards the back of the store, peeking around a shelf to see who sat behind the desk. Her mood perked up even further when she saw Roman sitting there.

As she approached she heard him murmur something almost poetic, the words dipping and dancing off his tongue. She wasn’t quite sure the source of it, if it was philosophy or poetry, but the words were pleasant just the same. “Hey there, Roman–pretty late to have the store open, isn’t it? Not that I mind–I could browse the shelves all night,” India beamed, stepping up to the desk and tilting her head, “That was lovely–reading anything interesting?”

He recognized India almost immediately, though he had a wait a few more seconds until he daze faded just a little. It was always difficult to come out from his concentration, data pulling him back and demanding his attention, although lately it had been becoming a little more easier. He didn’t like to think much about that. “I trust the goodwill of the townspeople.” He said, tilting his head, a small smile directed at her. It wasn’t a lie; he liked that everyone there knew each other, that even the tourists could trust and be trusted, because entering Colby was a gift, and everyone seemed to get that. 

She had only just crossed the threshold when she heard him speak, head immediately turning to the boy sitting behind the counter.  Suki let his words wash over him, the warm timber of his voice bringing a smile to her face. She always enjoyed witnessing the beautiful tapestry of knowledge Roman brought to life. “Just looking for my usual fix, another history book to add to my collection.  As much as she wanted to escape the memories Colby, she adored reading about the history of the world. She walked over to the counter, placing her leather clad hands gently on the counter. “Have anything new for me?”

Mal had only intended to poke his head inside the store, the glow of the light inside on an otherwise dark street had attracted him like a moth to a flickering flame. It was Roman’s silhouette from within that made him smile, stepping within. The other male’s voice was oaky, deep and weathered, as though he had lived a thousand lifetimes before this one; as he grazed his fingertips over old volumes, the barkeeper eavesdropped. It wasn’t until he was nearly a breath away from Roman that he stirred, retracting from the novel and sliding back into the present.

He almost pitied the fact that he had drawn him away from somewhere so special. “I thought you were being robbed,” Mal admitted, glancing at the cover of the book. “That’s nice though, what is it?”

“Hey, I heard you guys did trade-ins?” Callum asked, holding up a softcover book for Roman to see, a trashy romance novel from what was probably the late 90s if the hair was anything to go by. “This, um, isn’t mine, by the way.” 

Callum couldn’t really consider himself a reader, per se, since reading wasn’t something he did particularly often, but he enjoyed it once in a while. If Callum wanted to read, he would sometimes use Secondhand Books as a library of sorts, reading a little of some book here or there, getting little tidbits of story. It wasn’t a particularly good method of doing things, but books just seemed so attractive, in a weird way, he couldn’t help but come in. He had already been told off by the owner once.

There weren’t many books in the McKinney household, but almost all of them were dear to the family, mostly deeply beloved children’s books that were falling apart at the seams. But despite the dearth of reading material, Callum had found the old romance novel hidden behind one of his sister’s beds as he was cleaning out the room, clearly having been forgotten years and years ago. It had clearly been read multiple times. For all its tackiness, finding it had made Callum smile, fondness for his sister warming his soul. Katie’d always been the most romantic in the family, but she was gone now, off to distant places that weren’t Colby Harbor, and probably wouldn’t miss it.

“But yeah, I saw the light on, and I had the book in my car, so you know,” Callum said as a means of explanation. Noticing the unfocused look on Roman’s face, Callum stopped and observed closer, and looked down at the book he was reading. “Is that any good?”

Roman brought his eyes up, recognition shining brightly in his gaze. He knew him in the same way everyone in Colby Harbor knew each other, especially the younger generation. But he was also a familiar face around the store, even though Roman didn’t mind as much as the owner that the boy used his time there to read instead of buy. 

“We do,” he answered, because there had to be some extra way to get the used books the store was all about. Townspeople and tourists alike came with all sort of books and took others, in a symbiotic relationship that profited both parts. There was also the most important part of the little shop: you buy one, you get another for free. They got many boxes of books from people who left town, visitors that only stayed for a while and didn’t want reminders of their lives there, or charity from other towns nearby. 

He focused on the cover held between Callum’s hands, the cheesy title, the scene that was painted in over a hundred similar books. “There’s no shame in owning any kind of book. Little lessons live in the most unexpected of places.” In his quest for knowledge he had read every pink novel his mother owned, romance both good and bad, teenage stories and those meant for adults. There was no place for prejudgement in his life.

Pearl entered the old lighthouse’s ground floor with quick strides, dropping down next to Roman— but not close enough to drench him too, her clothes were already enough ruined for the both of them. She sighed.

“Dad is not good, today. He called me Masha. So I just— ran out the door and kept walking. Clearly not a good idea, and very poor planning.”

She really didn’t want to linger on the way her father’s eyes had lighted up when he had seen her sitting at the kitchen table— back covered by blonde hair, so similar to her mother’s that James Thorsen’s frail mind had slipped. Pearl knew she shouldn’t be that upset, but every time her Dad called her Maria, or Masha, or even Mashenka, it was like he slapped her. Pearl scrolled her head, noticing only after doing it that she had indeed shot some water at Roman, and focused on his musings about powers and abilities. She knew them well, she had spurred them on in the past, and it was with a smile that she whirled her hand and made flames dance on the tips of her fingers. At least, that was the intention. Her fire made only smoke on her wet skin.

“I guess we know what happens when I get soaked, Romya. I wonder if I could do this all over— split chances between ending up dry or smoked like a ham.” 

His eyes followed her movements, comparing the way her hair moved with that of a flame, as always. She would always represent fire, in his mind. It was impossible to take them apart. The words reached his ears and he just nodded, aware of the fact her home life was a topic she preferred to leave undiscussed. “Always know your path; it is adventurous to walk through the unknown, but wiser is the man who leads with a true focus on mind.” He said instead, letting the words flow through him, focusing on the most harmless part of what was spoken.

He doesn’t miss his father. You can’t miss a ghost that doesn’t haunt you. People who knew the usual visitor say Roman is his spitting image, but that’s about everything that relates him to the man. He used to ask, before. His name, his age when his parents met, what happened that first fateful summer he came to visit and fell irrevocably in love with his mother. But with time the man became a distant memory, something abstract that Roman didn’t connect with himself in any way, like that twice-removed aunt that lives all those miles away and calls once every two months. If he ever visited, Roman doesn’t remember (a lie — he doesn’t forget. his father’s fingers were warm against his hair when he ruffled it, and there was a laugh in his voice, even though his eyes were full of wariness. it’s just that he doens’t think about it).

If you are going to spend countless hours learning by heart the contents of a book, you need coffee. Yes, Roman feels a love for knowledge that threatens to shatter him to pieces most days – but he’s still human. His ability only gets him so far. If he wants to stay sane and awake after nights of deep reading, he needs the dark brew to keep him alert. It’s become sort of a problem of its own, but he deals.

He likes the ocean, the great beast that it is. When he is not holed up inside his room or taking unnecesary midnight shifts in the secondhand book store, Roman can be found with a book held in his hands by the little beach that is born by the east. It’s quiet there, water softly lapping at the sand, but some days he likes to venture closer to the more popular parts of the beach, where he can observe the young and the old and the foreign.

Boys or girls, Roman? He was asked by a group of giggling teenagers at one of the only parties he assisted during high school. He frowned, and started a rant so long and winded that had almost everyone going away to seek better victims. Love can’t be defined, and he has tried. Attraction is a wild phenomenon they can’t predict in the evening news. There’s a wide set of everything, from sexualities to identities and he respects them all. The sensible heart that inhabites his chest has flutered looking at girls and boys alike, looking at those who don’t fall in either category, too.   

Roman is words and very little action. He might want to jump off that cliff with all the other kids, but there’s a hand at his throat that feels very much like fear holding him in place. There’s a kind of electryfing terror to performing the things you long to do. He’s read so much; acting on will instead of deep analysis is not on his base code. It’s, probably, his worse limitation. He loses that surety that surrounds his words and movements as soon as he’s asked to do something by impulse. He can’t, can’t let go of the tightly wrapped fist he keeps around his resolve.

He’s charming, in some subtle way he doesn’t even realize. When he recites poetry out of thin air, when he throws facts about obscure arts to fill the quiet, in the way he moves his hands when he’s talking, passion in his eyes about something. Of course, this only happens when he bothers to come out of his shell, pay some attention to the world around him. He’s trying to be better at doing so. His mother is growing tired of watching her lonely boy grow into a lonely man. 

Colby Harbor is all he knows. Contradictory, when Roman seems to know everything. But he’s a creature of hesistance, and his few trips along the magical borders have rendered him scared of the outside world. It frustrates him, that there’s still so much more he could learn, could see, but outside the town he is no better than his three years old cousin. Yes, he has a hunger for everything: but researching what he is without his ability is a night terror he prefers to escape from. He has been so defined by this gift; if it is taken away, what would be left of him? Who would he be? 

Pearl decided, as she squeezed her soaked hair, that there was only so much water a fire girl like her could take in a day. And with the slap of rain that had hit her in the time it had taken her to realize how the weather had changed and then reach the lighthouse, she had had her fair share. For a week at least.

From the threshold where she was still standing, Pearl looked up. No sign that the rain was stopping anytime soon, and all she had was her phone, which clearly wasn’t going to do her much good because— yep, no connection, she scoffed as she put it back into her pocket. Well, this is going to be an exciting afternoon. And that’s when someone greeted her in Russian.

Without even turning, Pearl’s face immediately turned upside down, frown giving space to a smile. Because there were only three people in Colby Harbor had the habit of conversing in Russian— herself, dedushka Anatoly, and someone that had learned it in high school because of her. 

“Privyet, Romya”

Her voice woke up the worlds that lived inside of him. Russian flooded his mind like warm tea, filling up the joints of his body and making him feel so familiar to the languague as if he had been born in the middle of a blizzard in Moscow. The nickname took him years back, to noons that seemed more tender, a hopeless increase in the beating of his heart.