The White City
“Vanishing was the proper word, too—he was hard to hold in one’s attention, except when he chose to dominate it. It was as if he existed in some way sideways to the rest of the world, so that he faded into the backdrop until he asserted his presence. When he spoke, though, a spotlight might have picked him out on the proscenium of some invisible stage, and all around him faded into darkness.
In another thousand years, Sebastien wondered, will I be like that?
“You don’t associate with the blood,”... Sebastien said, dropping back to walk beside Starkad.
Starkad paused for a moment as if remembering how before he shrugged, his ash-pale locks breaking over his shoulders. “I did,” he said. “Before there were clubs and associations and rules and traditions. Before there were so many expectations.”
“All those people are gone.”
“Yours too.” It wasn’t a question.
The acknowledgement, Sebastien could see, cost Starkad an effort. So much work, relating to others, when the silence inside one’s own head had become so immense.MoreLess
In another thousand years, Sebastien wondered, will I be like that?
“You don’t associate with the blood,”... Sebastien said, dropping back to walk beside Starkad.
Starkad paused for a moment as if remembering how before he shrugged, his ash-pale locks breaking over his shoulders. “I did,” he said. “Before there were clubs and associations and rules and traditions. Before there were so many expectations.”
“All those people are gone.”
“Yours too.” It wasn’t a question.
The acknowledgement, Sebastien could see, cost Starkad an effort. So much work, relating to others, when the silence inside one’s own head had become so immense.MoreLess
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