The distance Daud places between them even here doesn't go unnoticed, unrecognized for what it is - might be. The times few and far between that have been a subtle agreement that this is nothing, can be nothing, eccentricities don't have a place here on good Christian soil where one must -
Ludo would clear his throat to interrupt his own thoughts, the way he might interrupt a child telling a tale too quickly. He merely breathes, barrel chest taking in more than the room can offer and more besides; there, quiet again, just a flicker of doubt easily set aside. The door closes just as quiet, oiled hinges and solid oak, autumn works done to see him through the winter. The iron catch he traded for (another pipe, much less ornate than-.)
(Someone called him sphinx-like, leonine, patient as a dog. He is that. It takes effort and time to reach a place where things aren't so precarious. It takes the work lying around him, evidence of himself in every part of his home. The most erratic pieces of his brain, plucked out and formed into functional, formed into ornate, valuable, decorative. Useful. Leaving behind something solid, something clean and smooth as sanded wood, as though the carving was his mind rather than the objects in his hands.
There are more pieces of his brain lying around than normal.)
He watches Daud with leonine patience, calm as the surface of the Hudson as the other man paces, twitches, fidgets. Turns and fixes him with a look. What is that look, why does he look so drawn? This isn't the same as an ending, this is something else, something heavier, personal and yet not so. He half expects to hear the words 'I'm in trouble', as he had so many times from others. Boys seeking advice (marry her, always the answer for that trouble), men seeking help (we'll build in the spring, I'll help with the harvest, easy answers, easy solutions, work made simpler with another pair of hands) - but never like this.
When the man here, tense and yet not tense, personal and impersonal, finally circles around to his point, it isn't what Ludo expected. Not a problem, like Ludo expected. Problems are things in the present, to be handled; burdens to be eased. Unless - there's more than just that statement. The only sign he gives that he might be taken aback is a raised brow.
"Well." Acceptance in that word: that because he hasn't asked, Daud is going to offer. That this is a conversation for a long winter night. He turns away to produce a pair of drinks, the stuff from the Van Tassels (another trade, this time for something or another for Katrina's trousseau, and didn't this oddness start around the time the girl married?) "I know the one you are now."
no subject
Ludo would clear his throat to interrupt his own thoughts, the way he might interrupt a child telling a tale too quickly. He merely breathes, barrel chest taking in more than the room can offer and more besides; there, quiet again, just a flicker of doubt easily set aside. The door closes just as quiet, oiled hinges and solid oak, autumn works done to see him through the winter. The iron catch he traded for (another pipe, much less ornate than-.)
(Someone called him sphinx-like, leonine, patient as a dog. He is that. It takes effort and time to reach a place where things aren't so precarious. It takes the work lying around him, evidence of himself in every part of his home. The most erratic pieces of his brain, plucked out and formed into functional, formed into ornate, valuable, decorative. Useful. Leaving behind something solid, something clean and smooth as sanded wood, as though the carving was his mind rather than the objects in his hands.
There are more pieces of his brain lying around than normal.)
He watches Daud with leonine patience, calm as the surface of the Hudson as the other man paces, twitches, fidgets. Turns and fixes him with a look. What is that look, why does he look so drawn? This isn't the same as an ending, this is something else, something heavier, personal and yet not so. He half expects to hear the words 'I'm in trouble', as he had so many times from others. Boys seeking advice (marry her, always the answer for that trouble), men seeking help (we'll build in the spring, I'll help with the harvest, easy answers, easy solutions, work made simpler with another pair of hands) - but never like this.
When the man here, tense and yet not tense, personal and impersonal, finally circles around to his point, it isn't what Ludo expected. Not a problem, like Ludo expected. Problems are things in the present, to be handled; burdens to be eased. Unless - there's more than just that statement. The only sign he gives that he might be taken aback is a raised brow.
"Well." Acceptance in that word: that because he hasn't asked, Daud is going to offer. That this is a conversation for a long winter night. He turns away to produce a pair of drinks, the stuff from the Van Tassels (another trade, this time for something or another for Katrina's trousseau, and didn't this oddness start around the time the girl married?) "I know the one you are now."
Thought he did, anyhow. Somewhat.
"Have a seat."