His bruises have started to yellow by the time he rejoins the village, slipping in and out of the kitchen through its side door in the mornings, taking tea back to the house. It feels better to walk the distance, to really wake up, to feel like he's actually rested. He sleeps better, away from the inn. He feels better.
Kira knows he can't avoid everyone forever. It isn't fair, to hole up in a house and contribute nothing, back to square one looking for a reason to get up--but the break has been good to him, and he isn't quite ready to give that up.
Isn't ready to take on the sinking that starts in his stomach, drags on his higher functions the closer he gets to the fountain. But there she is, leaning herself over the edge to stare, presumably at her own reflection. The water is usually clear enough to make out the shadows of the fountain's solid bottom, and it makes sense--to find her by water, to have two mugs of tea in his hands.
He can't make her feel better about what happened, but he can at least show her that he doesn't care. That he isn't afraid of her, any more than he's afraid of the fountain anymore. There's nothing magical to it at all, he's decided, having been in it twice, having dipped his burned hand in its waters and come up unchanged. It's just a piece of concrete with some water in it, and she's just a woman who had a very bad week. "Here," he says, walking up and offering over Casey's mug. "It's still cold, especially this early."
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Kira knows he can't avoid everyone forever. It isn't fair, to hole up in a house and contribute nothing, back to square one looking for a reason to get up--but the break has been good to him, and he isn't quite ready to give that up.
Isn't ready to take on the sinking that starts in his stomach, drags on his higher functions the closer he gets to the fountain. But there she is, leaning herself over the edge to stare, presumably at her own reflection. The water is usually clear enough to make out the shadows of the fountain's solid bottom, and it makes sense--to find her by water, to have two mugs of tea in his hands.
He can't make her feel better about what happened, but he can at least show her that he doesn't care. That he isn't afraid of her, any more than he's afraid of the fountain anymore. There's nothing magical to it at all, he's decided, having been in it twice, having dipped his burned hand in its waters and come up unchanged. It's just a piece of concrete with some water in it, and she's just a woman who had a very bad week. "Here," he says, walking up and offering over Casey's mug. "It's still cold, especially this early."