sentiment, or cowardice?: sentiment

It's a good time to go.

 

Sammich looks out the window, leaning out in a manner making them seem more relaxed than they actually are. The night sky looks back at them. Their fingers tap on the windowstill and make no noise. Lost in thought and wracked with hesitancy, they wonder where their ability to make the most spur-of-the-moment decisions went. Why doubt now? 

 

The road out is clear, and they've left Acrine before that way. That's not what ails them, no. The weather is nice, too nice maybe. There might be folks around on a nightly walk who could spot them. But that's still not what's stopping him. Sure, attracting any sort of attention is, to the contrary, not something they really enjoy or seek out, but it'd be hopeless to consider that word of them leaving wouldn't get out eventually. It's a small village. He would know how fast word spreads... Not fast enough.

 

Fully dressed to depart, Sammich breaks away from the view. Wouldn't hurt to double-check that everything in his bag is everything he needs. There's no real danger of forgetting anything, except his own pride and shame. Yes, best make sure. He kneels down to where he put the bag on the floor. Serendipitously, he's reminded of one more thing that he ought to bring. As if it were a sign from the sky, a stray moonbeam from the open window calls to attention a glint of something forgotten underneath a very messy, and very full shelf. Sammich turns back and tilts his head for a moment. He did forget about this.

 

With a deep sigh, he reaches for the dagger, if only to examine it. With the sense that reconciling his emotions is going to take a while, he sits on the floor cross-legged.

 

He sneezes as he blows the dust off. It looks generic and unadorned. No sheath for it, too. The edges are imperfect, the cheap metal lightly rusted and the fuller uneven. Despite that, it feels right to hold—Somehow more fitting in his hands than he remembers, but perhaps he's just changed. He gives it a clumsy, out-of-practice knife flip, and is left to look at his reflection in the blemished blade. Well, he looks exactly the same as ever. He's taken great care to make sure of that. It still reflects the tiredness in his eyes. He closes them slowly, reminiscing about the dagger.

 

It was a summer's day...