Wheeling Gull Isle tongkola

heda slept all that night and far into the next afternoon.
when she woke it was with a jerk and a gasp and a head that could not quite make sense of where she was. and then the scent of the sea came to her, and she worked her jaw.
there were green things all around. heda blinked at the sky, yawned at the birds. her stomach growled loudly; she swore under her breath and then looked around for @Bartholomew, hoping he had not heard.
"i think there's an easier way to the beach," she said when she'd found him again, tail waving softly. heda squinted against the sun, and she pointed toward the stretch of forest that, unbeknownst to her, guarded the way to tidepools.

bartholomew had been engaged in a slow morning prayer, not far at all from the slumbering girl, that bled into the afternoon.

he prayed for her heart.

her mind.

her soul.

deeply, he wished she would find that peace. he prayed she would find strength to do what was right. he prayed that even if she did not believe, that God Himself might guide her to happiness. save her from the grief of her soured heart.

her voice called out behind him. his head turned over his bony shoulder, narrow face only accentuating the willowed structure of his body.

well, why don't we figure out the path then?

he waited before he rose, wondering if she truly did wish to indulge him in an adventure.

heda's wanderlust had made her a fan of companionship upon her findings. and bartholomew was no drain on her. he was measured. his observations were good. still, she wondered if he would rather rest. the day before had been long.
the way the light fell across him reminded her again of that creature. she pulled her eyes away and trotted past him, headed down high green hill into the bright flat land below, grass-stems sticking up from near-white sand.

he rose and followed her along the path she carved.

the way she moved nearly suggested she own the island. it brought a warm look to his face, highlighted by the afternoon sun's strong gaze.

she seemed a natural explorer, in general.

you have many talents, don't you?

heda reddened beneath the flaxen fur of her cheeks. "no," she said with an emphatic shake of her head. "i just — i'm just a fast learner." what did he do? she wondered.
but that went into the box of things that heda was not yet willing to ask, or perhaps would not ever say.
when she turned to look at him, he had that expression again, one that reminded her of a cool forest grove in summertime. and bartholomew meant it for her.
her shoulders twitched. she ran past a stand of pine on the right and toward the stones which rose from the sand.

he thought it humorous.

she had been so brash and bold in the plains. now she whisked her hardness away. replaced by a young woman who had seemingly not been nurtured into her roles.

she did not wear the pride of a hard trained soldier, hunter or scout.

he gave chase to her weaving path. each step well placed behind her, mindful to not hit a stray stone or branch. the smell of salt was strong all over the island, but it seemed to grow here.

what do you think?

"i think we're close."
she wanted to receive the blessing of that look again.
heda dashed ahead, drawing up sharply. there was water underfoot. it filled a half-dozen stone pools, swirling across the sand and back out to sea. little creatures squirmed in each of these.
slowly her head lowered between shoulders. heda began to carefully stalk forward.

now, well, now he wore an expression of wonder. awe. such an unusual place, but who was he to question it? it was a creation of God, delivered by heda.

a wonder of the world, he declared at once.

quickly he toed around the pockets of water, examined each one's contents. some carried colorful, soft creatures. some carried pointed, dangerous ones.

she found weird, soft-bodied creatures shaped like stars in the third pool. heda wondered if they were edible. she extended her toes into the water and the animal clung to it with soft suckers.
it was more different than anything else.
she looked up toward bartholomew. her face was enchanted, and it seemed the shackles of the previous year had gently fallen away, at least for the present.

he thought that in this very moment his morning prayers had been given life.

how happy and free she seemed in this moment. he would be punished if he dared to ruin it with nosy questions or somber admissions.

instead, he sought to capture her attention here the same way he had in the flowers.

one paw hoped to scoop and fling water droplets at her.

heda squealed. the gravity of the moment was broken, but brilliantly so. she flung tidepool droplets right back at him, until she was compelled to crouch and aim a tackle.
her rangy limbs wrapped. she felt the wet sand squelching under her feet and laughed, a sound that would come no matter what he chose to do.

she launched, a tackle.

he found himself in a stumble but no true harm would come from their collision. at worst he dropped his rear into the water, drenched on the lower half now and droplet splattered on the upper. it was good to see and experience such joy.

laughter would bubble from him too. quick before he sought to wiggle free like a weasel and zip off down the chain of tide pools.

it was not ferality which drove her to pursue, but the beacon of his joy. it was purer than what she had known, moreso even than she thought she could muster.
until now she had given no thought to his age, only that he knew more than her. but for a moment heda considered it. wasn't someone older than her supposed to be bitter?
she tried to turn it into a race, nipping toward his shoulder.

the tendrils of his tufted, wavy coat were easily plucked by her teeth. nothing hard, nothing worth ceasing over.

instead it felt more like encouragement.

his frenzied pace would soon push them further up the coast, closer back into the cover of trees. he wondered if she would continue the chase there.

for a moment he thought as though he might win, if she did.

bartholomew darted in front of her as their path narrowed. heda kept at his heels. the trees closed around them and she was hard put not to stop and marvel again.
heda swerved to his other side, eyes narrowing as soft branches gently lashed the sides of her face. she closed on him, nostrils puffing.

she was a brilliant blaze of holy fire chasing the darkclad priest.

he felt the thrill of the chest in his heart, his soul. but he was not the trained hunter she was, built for the fight and flee. he was a willow tree with swaying branches and his legs sought to prove this point as he trembled.

headed for a collision course with her if she did not avoid him.

perhaps the conflict reminded her of life and its fallibility, of the fact come to life that she had been a mistake and only through sequoia had she been saved.
and it had been mahler who made a place for sequoia.
but who had led him to do it?
heda did not avoid; she leaned into the chaos to come.

tangled.

intertwined, collided. he felt the air of his lungs fly free in a sputter and found some difficulty in getting any air back in. for this youthful moment, he felt old in reward.

if she did not do something, he would take the following moments to recover on the ground. sides heaved with each attempt to level out his oxygen.

"bartholomew."
heda observed him. she worried her bottom lip with sharp teeth. 
she watched his breathing, watched bartholomew recover.
"what did you mean the other day, when you said you were a 'different man' here?"
her golden eyes were unveiled now, and worry lurked under her gaze. had he been the kind of person who would just leave? just wake up one morning and decide his life wasn't working out how he wanted, and that he needed to disappear?
what heda desperately wanted to ask was if he would leave her. it was a half-formed, wordless emotion, predicated both on her disillusionment and the blooming idea of investment. she did not want to invest in what would not come back to her. but she was young. heda could work with anything she thought might be a promise.
she waited, sitting half-above him as he returned to his abilities.

blame the book im invested in for constantly messing with my writing style ;; thanks for being a pal

what a horrible thing to ask, he thought.

how hard he had tried time and time again to forgot those things. he returned and the wound of the island on his heart did not ache when the sun was high. when he ran wild, when he sang gospels, when he gave heda bits and pieces of his religion to digest. his heart did not ache in the company of somebody pure.

and yes, her heart may have been soured so horribly ill, but her soul?

he swore she was his baptism by fire. he had set out to do better by action and she had arrived on the tip of the devil's tongue. his golden eyes closed and still he thought he could feel the heat of her presence. the blessed gold of her eyes and the sunflame strip down her spine. bartholomew could think of her and not loathe himself for. he could speak to her (romp with her!) and not feel so wholly consumed by horribleness.

i was a bitter man, heda, he answered her, truthful and devoid of the guilt of all his prior sins. i was angry and i hurt myself and i hurt others. i did things that go against my very core. it is why i left just as it is why i returned. his eyes stayed fixed upon sunny tree tops. somewhere gulls cried over the lapping of waves. this things were truths in his heart.

because evil does not cease just because you flee from it. a whisper now, head rolled to the side so he might stare at her sidelong. i came back to root out the rot from my soul — and i cannot tell you the last time i have felt so free. so cleansed of the things that have plagued me.

and i do not seek to pressure you by telling you these things. only to let you know the impact you have.

I SEE UR A PERSON OF CULTURE AS WELL; jean m auel had me in a thrall for years lmao

bartholomew spoke earnestly. heda did not think she had ever heard him shout or exclaim. by turns she gazed at the ground between her paws, or the sea itself, or even his curling glossy profile. he spoke of things he had done, things he did not describe.
he shut his eyes and heda was finally able to look at him without being absorbed and dismantled by the knowingness in his face. bartholomew had pleasant, somber features, but she felt that in these silences he did go away, after a fashion.
where did he go? did his god speak to him again?
his gaze was upon her; heda had been caught staring. she blinked slightly but kept the connection. no blushing or evasiveness ever granted an answer. he had been a bad man. he had done bad things. now he had come back, and — impact? her?
"i'm t-the reason you feel that way?" heda asked, believing she had misheard. her mouth was dry. she clung to his living word. if that was what bartholomew had said, then it would be a first. no one had ever said anything remotely like this to her, not in memory.

how silly of him.

how he had dared to tell her there was no pressure upon her only to place the weight of his happiness upon her shoulders. and such a thing could be so crushing. look how he had treated his wife, look where she had ended up. heaven, he hoped.

dove had once placed the weight of her happiness upon her husband. barthlomew, if he closed his eyes, could remember her starkly. remembered the songbird tune of her voice. remembered vows exchanged in the throes of love. and he had been such an awful man and the moment she had been laid to rest he had abandoned their sons in favor of missionary work.

now no one was here.

except heda.

he wondered if she might become a face of the past one day. she already had a home elsewhere, didn't she? none of the others he had felt connected to had stayed. but he did not feel fleeting, fuzzy feelings when he looked at her. perhaps God had already set her on her own path and he found no fear there in such a thought.

yes, he settled on and wrapped himself in the comfort of the silent seconds that followed.

it was through her, he found, that he could be the mouthpiece he had always meant to be. a doer and bringer of good, of righteousness. through every little act with her he felt that both of their souls mended back a little stronger.

it was her.

it was the Holy Father.

the notion that she had given something to him without knowing it stunned heda. she had done no more than exist and this man spoke of the ways she made him feel. her mind raced back over his words.
i cannot tell you the last time i have felt so free. so cleansed of the things that have plagued me.
it was no small wonder that heda at last lost a battle she did not know she was fighting. her lips trembled, face contorted. and though she looked away she could not hide from bartholomew. she didn't even know why she was crying, except that an old rot was coming through with each sob.
she felt it blackening her throat.
she could not look at him; she did not know what to do with that contemplative and ageless expression. the cries felt endless, rolling out of her mouth in shards of pain that cut her palate and exhausted her voice.
"i want to be free," was all heda said after a while, voice small and almost too low.

she cried.

some empathetic tether had his own eyes gloss softly. her sobs the kind that only came from healing. not even the most skilled medics in the world could cease this kind of pain. this was not his first look at it —

once again he thought of dove. she had wept so feverishly towards the end —

heda softened his heart further. such an ugly and selfish thing, he thought, to be so deeply touched by the display of her fleeing agony. he only prayed that each sob lightened her soul. that the load of whatever had set such anguish into her was at least a little bit easier to carry now.

her words stunned him into a more prolonged silence. slowly, tenderly, he rolled to his feet and then sat next to her. unspeaking still as he considered the right line of words here. one misspeak ruined a whole moment for forgiveness and love.

for a moment he wondered if there were any words at all. but, ah.

i will give you that place here, when you are ready to accept such a thing into your heart, heda.

no judgement.

his home and heart were open to her, like God welcomed all his children, just as a true disciple should display.

frustration followed humiliation. she felt his eyes on her. she felt the vibration of his voice before she heard it. he moved and his warmth enveloped her. heda could not remember the last time she had been so close to someone. perhaps caracal, who had engaged in her fib of husband and wife, had laughed, had disappeared. and she couldn't blame him. she didn't.
but she was so tired of being alone.
her lips shuddered. she wanted to answer and yet she could not. her weeping continued. seabirds flew overhead, their harsh voices bringing her roughly back. the smell of the sea grounded her. the feel of the sand; she flexed her toes in it.
"how can you make me free, bartholomew?" she asked, but this time there was no skepticism, only pain, only pain in the way her mouth trembled and ears splayed; in the way her body instinctively wanted to lean against the lupine familiarity of his own, in the way that she tensed to keep this from happening.
the sobs began to subside in their own way, but the rift that seemed to have opened in her chest was endless and agonizing and she could feel the first staccato thunderclaps of rage coming, further back inside her.