The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing || Tristan Feb 4, 2018 9:59:52 GMT -7
Post by Ellis Danton on Feb 4, 2018 9:59:52 GMT -7
|Ellis couldn't really believe that Xanthe hadn't come back yet. It had been three days. |
Sure, their blow-out had been massive, perhaps even more than he had feared it could be, but surely it could not have been as bad as she was taking it. He worried perhaps, that she had been lost to the storm that had wracked the region that night. He knew better. The storm would be nothing to her, because she was a piece of it.
It was frustrating in a way, the way she had reacted. Of course he would serve Pelagia before anyone else. She was his leader, she represented Ayniea, who was his God. His job was to serve her. Now more than ever. Yet, as much as he wanted to think Xanthe was overreacting, he still recognized how he had hurt her. Even if she was angry about the mark on his hand, she was certainly just as angry (or more) at the fact that he had evaded telling her the truth. The situation made him wholly conflicted as he often was, and he did not know how to cope with conflict any longer.
In the past he had coped with panic, with tears, with attempts to mitigate the things which conflicted in him. None of them had worked, it was clear - because here he was, embroiled in conflict yet again. So he tried something new : Anger. And he didn't know how to cope with anger, so he separated himself from everyone.
Pelagia wouldn't be back for a time, and so he did not have much in the way of direction. He was helping the Peacekeepers where he could in her absence, and so he decided to use that as an excuse. A reason to go and be alone. He offered to chop all of the wood that they'd need for fire, since he was less 'morally opposed' to it than most of the Nisequois were. And so he chopped.
He chopped until sunset coloured the land around him in a pleasant orange, and until he had arrived at a sense of numbness. His arms were worn from the motion, his body was drenched in sweat from the exertion, sweat which soaked right through his cotton shirt, and his mind was quiet.
He landed a final blow with his axe to the wood before him, cleaving in perfectly in two with a loud and angered grunt before sighing, and leaving the axe on the chopping block he'd made from a tree stump. He shuffled over a few paces to sit on the ground near his bag, and near-collapsed into a sitting position and heaving mass.
Tired is good, He thought as he took a deep swig of water from his canteen, Tired is all-encompassing. If I'm tired, I can't think of Xanthe. Or Pelagia. Or... Or even my father. He sighed in refreshment, and stared blankly at the orange-washed landscape around him. This was fine. This is fine.
He didn't have a mind to notice anyone else around him.