Cerulean Cape A spoonful of tar

Bartolomew, he echoed. Like apostle in stories. For all his awkwardness, he didn't miss the way her voice had gone hushed, almost prayerful. In a way she reminded him of some of the recruits and their faces as they listened closely to every word of their commandant.

He had seen men, mortal flesh-and-blood men, command hearts and minds as if by magic. No matter how many times he saw it, even felt it himself, it was unbelievable.

I like that, he pawed at the sand, unconsciously mirroring her. I want to see it.

He asked, idly, why does god keep you there? He had not been in a real conversation for so long. Strange thoughts bubbled to the surface of his mind and threatened to burst from his lips. He wanted to ask more about her and her island, but lacked the easy coherence to conduct small talk. Instead, his words seemed to hinge away from their intended course, destroying eggshells in the wake of their odd spiraling paths.