Tracking down Memories
exeat weekend | White & Co., London
“Have you thought about going out on an expedition?”
Although he had more or less zoned out on Howard’s previous long-winded explanations, those words sparked Archer’s attention.
“You’d need a guide or a party—”
The words hit Archer in his chest cavity. In short, he needed someone in place of his mother. A guide — inwardly he snorted. The only guide he had ever known was the tender fingertips and calloused palms of his mother, the only guide he would ever follow was the falcon diving in a spiral in the open sky, leading the way in all her glory and majesty. That was the only guide he ever wanted to know. A pang of pain entering his heart, a flash of misery sparkled in his eyes, the sad glaze of gold catching the light. From Moroccan nights to Finnish skies he had lied down and watched the sky so many times, and every time, his hand was held. Every time, until he lied on the roof of his own home, alone.
“I am afraid my father is not as supportive as one could hope.” He said abruptly, snapping, evident that he wished to end the conversation. HIs father did not actually give a flying fig about what he was up to — it was plainly a lie, and only the slowest would have not have been able to tell. His brows furrowed, a sour look entering his gaze as he stared down Howard as if he had wrong him. As much as he ached to go on a expedition, to see the world and walk it with his own two feet, it would never be the same as the trips with his maman. He was still not moved on enough, but regardless, he would never allow anyone to replace her position.
“Thank you for your advice Mr. White,” he said, the comment, oddly, half-sarcastic, half-genuine, but fully closing the subject matter. It was true that their interaction had been one in his favour, and while Howard had nothing but good intentions, some of his words had still rubbed in the wrong direction, and Archer, pedantic as he was, was not one to let such things slide. Yet with that, he offered the man a lopsided, crooked grin and turned on his heel, satchel flinging in the air behind him. Just when he was about to leave the building with a click of the glass door, he stuck his head back in on second thought and smiled thinly, his own hazel eyes meeting the blazing red of Howard’s, “I shall be awaiting your owl.”
Maybe he should never have come in the first place.
@Howard White
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht