#arcanor

there's a brittle note to arthur's smile he can't quite suppress. maybe it's only funny because of the amount of scars he wears. risk and value are a little different for him. devaluing his own safety, perhaps, although it was more about burning his own wellbeing so that he wouldn't die. or almost would.

he hides most of the scars. the clothing he prefers and the gloves do shroud the worst of it, but enough of what happened crept onto his throat, the web of scars around his eye—it doesn't really matter. people have asked if he's a fucking war veteran before, something so absurd that it almost drove him to laughter at one point. arthur isn't one for that kind of laughter these days unless it borders on half-mad and hysterical. so he did manage to keep that quiet.

"then i'm almost nervous to ask what you think i value. or rather devalue."

i don't think she quite meant it cruelly, if that helps. john's voice hums in the back of his skull. or at least not in the way others have. others that john sounded like he wanted to snarl at more than anything. we both know you and risk are comfortable bedfellows, at any rate.

both of them are. john, if anything, is the most risk averse, perhaps because he's the most worried for the scarce few limbs he can control. it's something that arthur might want to tease him about, were it just the two of them in private. he shrugs. crosses his right hand over his left, glove to glove. more for the pressure john can feel in their shared left hand, some small reassurance that no, he isn't going to walk directly into danger just because this time. nor risk life and limb so easily.

you earn a life. you want to keep it. it's much easier to throw something away when you don't want it at all. he lived in that place once for too many years to think of.

LH. Lee’s voice comes out thinner than normal,  the quality of it less human than it was like wind, whistling and scratching up and through the dry cattails framing a lonely winter pond.   The deep - reaching warmth of her wool turtleneck does little to soothe the soreness of her throat,  but she supposes it is better to have than not;  at least,  it could hide the taut stretching of her neck and the tight muscles ‘neath each time she swallowed and gulped at the air,  as if she couldn’t get enough,  as if she had too many words in her mouth and didn’t want them all tumbling out .. in front of this stranger who was not quite a stranger,  and whose ideas Lee suddenly realizes she doesn’t know what to do with,  where to put.

Lark’s advice drops like a stone and lands on the muddy,  half - frozen dirt path before them,  and is quickly left behind as they walk forward,  up the winding,  sporadically tree - lined path,  at a steady pace.   FUCK THE HOUSE.   Fire hazards everywhere.   Lark doesn’t know how right she is about that.   Piles upon piles of decades old newspapers and magazines,  of clothing so threadbare and dust - bitten most people wouldn’t even use them as dish rags,   of countless dead appliances and beds with no one to sleep in them,  of phone books,  Bibles,  and outdated manuals describing the process behind everything from pie - baking to taxidermy. All useless,  all flammable,  all hers.   All that is left of a life shot through by—

It’s enough to pull Lee to a full stop,  just before they round the last corner,  face - to - face with the house.  Her house.   Stomach churns and for a sharp,  ear - ringing second,   Lee really believes it:   she’s going to hurl into the frost - covered bushes right beside her.   Internal systems whirl and she can feel the shift,  the bracing to pivot away from Misery the second she tastes the bile.   But there’s nothing in her stomach to sting on its way up,  not this time.   So,  it’s just saliva that oozes out from the walls of her mouth,  pooling underneath tongue until she thinks it might just spill over her chapped lips,  but it all slithers down her throat instead.   The problem is this: the house isn’t empty.   Fire hazards everywhere.   Memories everywhere. Reminders everywhere.   The trust is,  the house ahead is stuffed full and Lee doesn’t know,  doesn’t remember a time when it hadn’t been full.   Fuller than she ever even knew.   What would it be once emptied?   What would ooze out of its walls,  then? Lee stares ahead,  right through the evergreens that hide the house from view.   She can see it just fine in her mind’s eye.   “  I’m going to sell it.   I think that’s—   the best I can do.   But I can’t just—   leave it.  ”