Prompt: leaves gently falling down from the trees and fluttering in the wind
Summary: Atlas survived countless tragedies, but still seems inclined to follow them where they go. His present friend, Rune, is too curious to leave him be.
Atlas is supposed to be dead. He had belonged to the First Collegium Massacre, after all. Not that he ever made it to the body count of poor old merchants. Touched by the gods, it was said.
He was under the front-desk counter then, covered in black soot, choking as if he would die a second death just by breathing in the thick smoke. He couldn't even knee up through the heat. Contrary to common sense, his skin appeared to be barely touched by the fire after it died out.
Now, you find Atlas in the oldest alleyway of the city, eyes rapidly blinking away the pain of a penetration wound, temporarily bidding farewell to his otherwise ever-constant digestive system. He would close his eyes, and that would be it.
Rune nearly skidded on the cement, arriving faster than professional emergency response in record time, scolding the old man between breaths, "How many times do I have to tell you, if you get in trouble with muggers, either you hit—"
"I hit, run, or talk shit, right. I remember, Rune. I haven't developed dementia in centuries, what makes you think I'll have the pleasure of it now?" Atlas opened his eyes, removing himself from fake death. He remained on the cold, littered ground of Goldthwester Alley, doing nothing but grumble about the predictable damage reversal happening in his belly.
Rune merely sighed and watched the forever-retired merchant's body reconstruct itself over her knees. "Well, how are you feeling? Might as well find out, if you're gonna keep jumping into danger."
"Like a thousand needles prickling my legs. I feel better on the ground, though," Atlas lightheartedly responded with a thumbs-up.
She helped the man up after the tedious wait was over and, smelling that many places stank, made a face like Atlas himself was litter that needed to be disposed of. But as always, she'll be driving the litter home where he can take a break from his history (and malodor).
After answering the bare minimum for homework, she would read to him late into the night. She would ask about places he'd been to, and thoughts he'd had.
He'd tell her everything, except his one wish that he thinks about day in, day out.
She pretty much guessed it, but wouldn't utter a word of it.
She wouldn't ask about why.
She would mark the stories which made the old man cry and carefully plan to read them to him again after a few weeks have passed. And then she'd fall asleep and Atlas would carry her to her own bed.
He cannot sleep, and he cannot stop thinking. But for a moment, his thoughts were briefly relieved by a spontaneous view outside the window, of the first leaves being shed.
"Ah, winter is coming," he chuckles at the fallen leaves, feeling a little envious. A little more than 3 million fathoms underground, Nibiru—the giant dragon—pulses in its sleep, responding to Atlas' walks on earth.
