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For Eostre.
The last couple of days have been blessedly uneventful and he's starting to get used to the idea that maybe he doesn't have to be doing something useful, not all the time. Sometimes maybe he can just sit and read, as he is today, with his back against the trunk of a relatively comfortable tree and his toes in the first hints of sand that lead down to the beach. A copy of 1984 is open in his lap. Dystopias aren't a whole lot better than Norse myths, but it's at least a step up. And he's not going to beg. Not ever.
He starts to turn the page and then lets it go, closing his eyes instead and turning his face up to the sun. He isn't leaving. He's still sure. The Island might be strange and sometimes very messy, but it's still better.
He starts to turn the page and then lets it go, closing his eyes instead and turning his face up to the sun. He isn't leaving. He's still sure. The Island might be strange and sometimes very messy, but it's still better.