Another Sunday, another Six Sentences of the clockpunk Pied Piper!
This week, we’re taking a step back from the Piper himself. Instead, we’ll focus on the boy (Peregrine), as he sits up with the girl (Anna), and waits out what he hopes are the worst of her fever-dreams.
He spends the night listening to her rave, and attempting to understand.
He wrote her words out on the walls.
Paper supplies had dwindled long ago, books burnts up largely for kindling and desperately-needed fuel; but ink, useless to those who could not write or read, and who had no time or inclination to draw, remained. And so he, perhaps alone, had hoarded it, allowing it to stain his clothes like blood as he hurriedly spirited it from the hollow recesses that once were shops.
It had comforted him, this implied knowledge that he could one day pass something on, if ever there was anything worth passing on at all, or anyone to pass it to.
But now that the opportunity had finally come, he found himself wishing that it was anything, anything, but this.
He was frightened — not of her, precisely, but of the vessel that she had seemingly become, of the fact that she become such a vessel at all.