Summer in Faerghus isn't comparable to summer in Enbarr in terms of warmth. It's more like an extended spring: the air is gently warm and the sky is a vast swathe of blue above the village, but there are no bare shoulders, no delicate sandals picking their way over dirt roads and clumps of wild-flowers. Sacha is grateful for it: his mother never did particularly well in the heat, and her absence from their home suggests that she must have made the trip into town for ...
Well. Sacha knows first-hand what it is his mother does, doesn't he? It's strange: the cottage hasn't changed, his memory of this mother hasn't changed, yet he doesn't seem as small as he was the last time he was left waiting for her to come back.
He's simply himself, surrounded by the faded walls of his childhood home.
In truth, the place also looks a little more threadbare than he remembers. The roof's thatch will need tending before autumn's cold fingers begin to push their way inside, and the floor could use a fresh layer of straw and sweet, dried flowers. Sacha hums lightly to himself as he moves through their downstairs room and grabs the broom from the back wall; the least he can do is try to get the place looking nice for when his mother returns, right?
The roof ... Yeah. That'll have to wait until later, after his next trip down to Enbarr.
Decided, Sacha takes a moment to pull his hair into a bun on top of his head before tackling the floor. It's actually kind of therapeutic: one taks, one motion, sweeping old straw into piles, and it doesn't take long before his humming opens up into a sweet, lilting song that he remembers from his childhood. There's no need to be shy about his voice when he's hidden behind closed doors, and so he lets the music sweep him up in its comforting embrace as he dreams his dream of home. )
Dream a little dream of me.
( Love words. Family words.
Summer in Faerghus isn't comparable to summer in Enbarr in terms of warmth. It's more like an extended spring: the air is gently warm and the sky is a vast swathe of blue above the village, but there are no bare shoulders, no delicate sandals picking their way over dirt roads and clumps of wild-flowers. Sacha is grateful for it: his mother never did particularly well in the heat, and her absence from their home suggests that she must have made the trip into town for ...
Well. Sacha knows first-hand what it is his mother does, doesn't he? It's strange: the cottage hasn't changed, his memory of this mother hasn't changed, yet he doesn't seem as small as he was the last time he was left waiting for her to come back.
He's simply himself, surrounded by the faded walls of his childhood home.
In truth, the place also looks a little more threadbare than he remembers. The roof's thatch will need tending before autumn's cold fingers begin to push their way inside, and the floor could use a fresh layer of straw and sweet, dried flowers. Sacha hums lightly to himself as he moves through their downstairs room and grabs the broom from the back wall; the least he can do is try to get the place looking nice for when his mother returns, right?
The roof ... Yeah. That'll have to wait until later, after his next trip down to Enbarr.
Decided, Sacha takes a moment to pull his hair into a bun on top of his head before tackling the floor. It's actually kind of therapeutic: one taks, one motion, sweeping old straw into piles, and it doesn't take long before his humming opens up into a sweet, lilting song that he remembers from his childhood. There's no need to be shy about his voice when he's hidden behind closed doors, and so he lets the music sweep him up in its comforting embrace as he dreams his dream of home. )