He's good at listening; Ludo invites stillness with his own, both of them earned through a day's labor. At the end of long days (well into long nights) time eases in his cabin, sounds quiet, the fire warms the rooms, the smell of wood and oils and meals becoming the smell of standstill and rest. Of stopping a while. And him at the center of it, occupying space at his table, work-worn hands folded under his beard. Good at listening, comprehending, turning words over in his mind until they resemble sense.
Coming out of Daud's mouth, they seem simple enough, but the more he examines them, the more they leave a lingering sense of unease. What is a man who doesn't have a home? What kind of person moves from place to place like a vagabond? Who considers their first chance at ease a false pretense?
Who hides it all, skirts the telling of the story in the first place?
Someone on the run. Someone who's done wrong. (Not just biblical erring in the all-seeing, too-present eye of a god - one Daud doesn't put stock in, anyway. So, not that. Worse, somehow.)
It's a strange offer, isn't it, to let him decide whether he wants to hear what weighs so heavily on the other man? Remarkable, selfless, and strange. Is there any way that he can refuse to hear it? Would Daud be able to walk out of this house, content, without setting this burden down? (I'm in trouble, that circles back, gravel-voiced. What kind of man refuses to hear it?)
He doesn't want it. That's a first. A shaken thought in the back of his mind, denying the words that are sure to come, because hearing it will change things. Hearing what means to be said, this thing that created an intangible distance (still palpable here between the two men, as far apart and ever untouching as the solstices, as midnight and midday, though they share space in concept of year and day) could do more harm.
But not wanting it is not a good reason to turn away anyone in need. It's not a good reason to refuse to hear Daud. As if he could refuse him -
Much of anything.
"I don't know if you'll want to tell it," he counters quietly, some almost amusement in his voice. It's too deep-driven to easily distinguish it from regretfulness. But I need to listen. It's not an obligation, and so he doesn't form those words. It's something owed, not out of duty, but out of...
Devotion? Does that seem like a good word, here, in the late hours of the night, with Daud looking at him in a way that makes him wish he was years younger, makes him wish he had more time to know who this man was before, and who he is today, and who he'll be tomorrow?
He'll lay that word carefully to the side and examine it later, at the end of the story (sure to be harrowing, as most stories this late at night tend to be.)
no subject
Coming out of Daud's mouth, they seem simple enough, but the more he examines them, the more they leave a lingering sense of unease. What is a man who doesn't have a home? What kind of person moves from place to place like a vagabond? Who considers their first chance at ease a false pretense?
Who hides it all, skirts the telling of the story in the first place?
Someone on the run. Someone who's done wrong. (Not just biblical erring in the all-seeing, too-present eye of a god - one Daud doesn't put stock in, anyway. So, not that. Worse, somehow.)
It's a strange offer, isn't it, to let him decide whether he wants to hear what weighs so heavily on the other man? Remarkable, selfless, and strange. Is there any way that he can refuse to hear it? Would Daud be able to walk out of this house, content, without setting this burden down? (I'm in trouble, that circles back, gravel-voiced. What kind of man refuses to hear it?)
He doesn't want it. That's a first. A shaken thought in the back of his mind, denying the words that are sure to come, because hearing it will change things. Hearing what means to be said, this thing that created an intangible distance (still palpable here between the two men, as far apart and ever untouching as the solstices, as midnight and midday, though they share space in concept of year and day) could do more harm.
But not wanting it is not a good reason to turn away anyone in need. It's not a good reason to refuse to hear Daud. As if he could refuse him -
Much of anything.
"I don't know if you'll want to tell it," he counters quietly, some almost amusement in his voice. It's too deep-driven to easily distinguish it from regretfulness. But I need to listen. It's not an obligation, and so he doesn't form those words. It's something owed, not out of duty, but out of...
Devotion? Does that seem like a good word, here, in the late hours of the night, with Daud looking at him in a way that makes him wish he was years younger, makes him wish he had more time to know who this man was before, and who he is today, and who he'll be tomorrow?
He'll lay that word carefully to the side and examine it later, at the end of the story (sure to be harrowing, as most stories this late at night tend to be.)
"But it's probably best."