How bittersweet it is to be here so close on the heels of having lost the language. Of course they can all speak in trade, but not having the option—
It sticks in her mind. Hearing all this language, and being unable to respond in kind. Knowing that in due time they'll be traveling north to Dairsmuid. They'll arrive there only to leave again, but Derrica has been wavering between anxious anticipation and dread, both fluttering in her chest endlessly. There is no fully putting any part of it from her mind.
And how could she? Standing in Rivain for the first time since she fled, hearing Rivaini spoken, the warmth of her people and her country folding around her, it would be impossible to think of anything else.
The sweetness of the return and the sting of all the complicated, mournful aspects of it makes the distance maintained between them and the village all the more obvious. The closed doors are troubling her, even here on a beautiful stretch of beach with the late afternoon sun casting everything in bronze and gold.
Olu has been sunning himself, napping while stretched across the sand. He shouldn't be the only person here, but he is. Derrica has waded out into the sea up to her thighs, unconcerned with her trousers and tunic. She has turned only enough to keep everyone in sight, mark Loxley and Abby and Gwenaëlle wherever they have gotten to.
Later that evening, when they have been delivered trays of food and left to themselves in the close-clustered trio of huts, Derrica doesn't make a habit of smoking, but she has acquired a few loosely rolled cigarettes. Perhaps from Olu, perhaps from the crew of the ship that shuttled them here. She has two balanced on her knee while she lights the third with a sputtery flicker of flame conjured between two fingers so she might take a few noncommittal puffs.
A glass of sweet-smelling wine is untouched beside her. Beyond all of them, the village is quiet too. People pass between huts, but it is all very brief and soft. It doesn't match her recollection of life here, and she isn't certain what to make of it, or what else to do other than worry at it when she likely should be preparing for bed.
derrica / ota.
It sticks in her mind. Hearing all this language, and being unable to respond in kind. Knowing that in due time they'll be traveling north to Dairsmuid. They'll arrive there only to leave again, but Derrica has been wavering between anxious anticipation and dread, both fluttering in her chest endlessly. There is no fully putting any part of it from her mind.
And how could she? Standing in Rivain for the first time since she fled, hearing Rivaini spoken, the warmth of her people and her country folding around her, it would be impossible to think of anything else.
The sweetness of the return and the sting of all the complicated, mournful aspects of it makes the distance maintained between them and the village all the more obvious. The closed doors are troubling her, even here on a beautiful stretch of beach with the late afternoon sun casting everything in bronze and gold.
Olu has been sunning himself, napping while stretched across the sand. He shouldn't be the only person here, but he is. Derrica has waded out into the sea up to her thighs, unconcerned with her trousers and tunic. She has turned only enough to keep everyone in sight, mark Loxley and Abby and Gwenaëlle wherever they have gotten to.
Later that evening, when they have been delivered trays of food and left to themselves in the close-clustered trio of huts, Derrica doesn't make a habit of smoking, but she has acquired a few loosely rolled cigarettes. Perhaps from Olu, perhaps from the crew of the ship that shuttled them here. She has two balanced on her knee while she lights the third with a sputtery flicker of flame conjured between two fingers so she might take a few noncommittal puffs.
A glass of sweet-smelling wine is untouched beside her. Beyond all of them, the village is quiet too. People pass between huts, but it is all very brief and soft. It doesn't match her recollection of life here, and she isn't certain what to make of it, or what else to do other than worry at it when she likely should be preparing for bed.