This one, a small red-headed child heavily bandaged is walking next to a older man. The city around them is bright and vibrant, and every so often the child runs forward to look at something, and the older man has to grab him by the ear to drag him back.
"Don't run! You'll open your wounds. I didn't spend three days and nights to keep you alive, only for you to fall over here."
The child pouts, though he winces a little around the bandage pasted on his cheek.
"But the festival's today! You said we could go see! Gramps, please, pleeeasseee...."
The man keeps a firm hold on his protege as they keep walking.
"Don't call me Gramps. I'm Bookman. How many dead from the Battle of Saint's Crossing? Recite them for me, and don't leave the MIA out."
The child sighs, but obeys, rattling off numbers. Bookman nods, then asks another question. More statistics, more numbers. The conversation bounces back and forth, every so often Bookman puts a protective hand on the child to nudge him back to safety, and eventually, the child clutches the sleeve of the older man in return. His expression is trusting and open, shining with a child's affection. Bookman is far more taciturn, but the tone of his voice is gentle as he replies. The memory eventually winks out, film rolling as the two continue on their way.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2023-03-30 03:14 am (UTC)[but as he speaks, the screen blinks on
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