Rick watched as Carl kept his eyes on the woman, watching her every move. That wasn’t right; he should have been innocent and hopeful, much like he had been before the apocalypse had started. Now he trusted no one.
Rick could understand how she was feeling, what she was going through. The same thing had happened to him, to his group, but a cruel, heartless man had done it to them. Hollows? He wasn’t entirely sure what she was talking about. He thought about asking her but assumed she was talking about walkers. Everyone had different names for them. Biters, walkers, cannibals, living dead, walking dead and it went on and on. An endless list of nicknames for those that wanted nothing more but to eat them alive.
Rick paid close attention to her story, to what had happened to her and her group. She had dealt with almost everyone he had dealt with whilst at the prison. He’d lost his wife too; the woman that was supposed to be alive, helping him with difficult decisions and raising Carl into the man she had hoped he would be. Rick was lost without his wife and he was pretty sure he always would be. How could they ever get used to this new world?
Rick looked towards her with sympathy in his eyes, hoping that she wasn’t feeding him a sob story to gain his trust.
"It’s just us two now," he didn’t want to talk about, it was still a fresh wound. One he wasn’t entirely sure would heal.
Refusing to shift beneath the teenager’s gaze, Dantalion kept her eyes on the father, whose name she still didn’t know, but didn’t really mind whether she found out or not. Doubtless, she wouldn’t be speaking to anyone but him, so who else could she address?
She’d never been the most social of people, even before the infection. She was perfectly happy in her books, sketching, passing time away quietly. She’d always been perfectly happy with Malcolm and Kitty, with Glasya, and that had been all she’d ever needed.
Now, however, she rather missed the noise.
That which she’d always hated before — the city cars, where her ex-husband has always insisted upon living, amongst the fumes. Next door’s blaring music, the dog down the street…
Even after the divorce, when she’d moved out of the city, there was still background noise — the planes which went overhead, the sounds of whatever resided in the nearby forest, the ever-present cars. She’d never thought they would go away, and at the time, she’d wanted them to.
”You ‘ave your boy, at least.”
Will made his way to the couch, sitting down and sighing. He was so tired, and he knew that she knew it, but it was finally time, it was finally an appropriate occasion (which was something he had grown to care for, whether he liked it or not) to ask the questions he so wished to.
Dantalion was a demon, and while he had seen many things in his life that he doubted the existence, she was very, very real. He had interacted with her for hours, others had acknowledged her presence and while he knew she could manipulate things to her liking, he had a good understanding of what was real and what wasn’t.
His eyes swam around the room until they found her figure again, tall and standing with her feet covered by the sheer fabric of her socks. He wasn’t very sure of what his expression was, only that his eyes were tired. He decided to speak. She said something first.
With her lips pressed together, Dantalion stepped forward, the floor cold despite her still wearing socks. The fabric was, albeit, rather thin, having a rather silken quality.
Sitting beside him on the sofa, she lifted her feet up, so as to sit more comfortably. Then, pushing her hair back as she looked towards him, she turned, back against the sofa’s arm.
“…Zank you for inviting me into your ‘ome.”
That was the generic thing to say. She knew this. Had been in the minds of humans for long enough to be confident using their mannerisms.
But it was her too — despite her faults, she’d never considered herself impolite. Not once. And she, of course, had many faults. Far too many, but of course, such things were in her nature.
She had that as an excuse, at least.
Transfiguration of the Saint Elisabeth by Wilhelm List (1864-1918)
tempera heightened with gold on canvas, ca.1905
Entre Manhattan y Barcelona Martí Bofarull
Una dedicación para mi amigo de Reus…