Meadow

When Viveka held still to let her daughter nurse, Romulus lifted his painted face to eye the Meadow. It was not entirely empty, but as the last few streaks of light from the setting sun smeared away into purple shadows, the handful of distant figures seemed threatening. He knew he was paranoid — he was the same way with his own son. Everywhere was dangerous and full of predators in Romulus’s head, and sometimes he truly itched to seek them out and tear them apart before they even had an appetite for the things he held dear. Despite his paranoia, however, he knew that this was foolish. It was getting easier to manage every day, and even now he retained only a healthy suspicion of the anonymous figures with whom he shared the Meadow, rather than the usual all-consuming angst.

When he turned his gaze back to Viveka, he thought she looked worn down, but couldn’t tell if it was from labor or the emotional turmoil of her day. Part of him wanted to give her a comforting touch, but he knew that was inappropriate; she was clearly exhausted, and going through hell on top of everything. He didn’t know the details, but he didn’t have to in order to respect that she probably didn’t want to be touched.

After offering what meager shelter he could provide, he stood in silence as the sun pulled the last of its light down with it. The moonlight was weak, but fireflies bobbed lazily in the grass around them, sharing their own tiny dots of light. Little stars, scattered across the swaying sky of the Meadow, he thought.

Viveka’s words pulled him from the melancholy haze he had fallen into looking out across the grass. I don’t know what a home is anymore, she said. He found his own feelings reflecting her sentiment; he had never really had a home, but even if one had been available to him, there was no one in his life he could have shared it with until recently. He supposed the Desert had been the closest thing to a home he ever had. Traveling with Dexter throughout his childhood, he had never stayed anywhere long enough to grow attached to a location, and he certainly had not been close enough to his father to call any place home when he was around.

“I think the people matter more than the place, when it comes to feeling home,” he said thoughtfully. “The wrong person can make home feel like hell. The right one can make a home out of hell.” And being alone is a safe middle ground, he added silently. No one was better than someone who hurt you.

“This place isn’t safe, but I think you’re probably better off here alone than back in the Badlands. Count your blessings, and all that,” he said, not unkindly.

It had dwindled, but his anger toward whoever had driven a mare on the brink of childbirth to throw herself into the sea to escape had not entirely gone away. It still burned persistently in his chest, in a way that suggested it would not give him peace until he did something about it.