Credence walks because he's not sure what else to do. Of course since arriving he's helped--most know him as the quiet boy in the inn who stays in a corner unless he's needed, or the one that disappears swiftly to his room when things get too loud or raucous. The hunting party was a perfect display of that, save for when he and Alex went sprinting down the roads to get everyone gathered.
The fact of the matter is that he's here, and he's stuck in such a profound way. It's different than being stuck in the church, and it's different from the itching hot feeling under his skin begging for release. He couldn't do anything about those, sure, but Credence feels that extra mile of utter helplessness that comes with the fact that no one here can get out, either. They're all stuck. Every single one of them.
Some make the best of it, he's learning. There's pretty Kate Kelly in the inn, and Alex, and even Jess Brightwell who makes sure he's armed and ready in his own special way. Every single person is carving something in this settlement for themselves. He'd find it beautiful if he didn't find it sad, too. So Credence helps, and Credence walks, and Credence dreams like he used to when he was forced to go to bed early for misbehaving.
He's so far in his thoughts--eyes sure to scan every alley though, thanks to the British boy at the inn who pressed a makeshift knife in his hand the day they met--that he thinks he's imagining someone singing. The only tip off is the very end, where he realizes that there's no way his imagination would let him think up of something so bawdy. He's unconsciously followed the pretty voice, one foot after the other, and when he looks over he finds a girl with brown hair and a spinning wheel.
He wonders, very briefly, if she knows about Sleeping Beauty or Rumpelstilskin. That's until his gaze sweeps over her hands, soft and elegant and long, and he decides he's alright to say something.
"Miss?" His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. He's staring at her hands, not her face: a pointed gesture, purposeful in it's intent. He can never look people in the eye.
"You might get frostbite if you're out here like that for too long. Your--um. Your fingers."
no subject
The fact of the matter is that he's here, and he's stuck in such a profound way. It's different than being stuck in the church, and it's different from the itching hot feeling under his skin begging for release. He couldn't do anything about those, sure, but Credence feels that extra mile of utter helplessness that comes with the fact that no one here can get out, either. They're all stuck. Every single one of them.
Some make the best of it, he's learning. There's pretty Kate Kelly in the inn, and Alex, and even Jess Brightwell who makes sure he's armed and ready in his own special way. Every single person is carving something in this settlement for themselves. He'd find it beautiful if he didn't find it sad, too. So Credence helps, and Credence walks, and Credence dreams like he used to when he was forced to go to bed early for misbehaving.
He's so far in his thoughts--eyes sure to scan every alley though, thanks to the British boy at the inn who pressed a makeshift knife in his hand the day they met--that he thinks he's imagining someone singing. The only tip off is the very end, where he realizes that there's no way his imagination would let him think up of something so bawdy. He's unconsciously followed the pretty voice, one foot after the other, and when he looks over he finds a girl with brown hair and a spinning wheel.
He wonders, very briefly, if she knows about Sleeping Beauty or Rumpelstilskin. That's until his gaze sweeps over her hands, soft and elegant and long, and he decides he's alright to say something.
"Miss?" His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. He's staring at her hands, not her face: a pointed gesture, purposeful in it's intent. He can never look people in the eye.
"You might get frostbite if you're out here like that for too long. Your--um. Your fingers."