Jun. 2nd, 2012

simplestgift: (z Childe Archie)
[In the morning, a boy luxuriates on the grass, turning the pages of a book at a rapid-fire rate, devouring it like a piece of birthday cake.

After the noon hour, he’s on the mountain near the bath house, listening for Kipinn.

Around three o’clock, he’s at the docks, in your boat, pretending to have adventures. He can’t make it as far out as the Britannia, unfortunately, because he’s too small to sail the quarterboat out by himself. He still casts some longing looks at it.

In the evening, he suddenly learns what day it is. That’s enough to deflate him some. Solemnly, he speaks over his journal, huddled on the couch in house 36.]


I’m nine years old today.

[Actually he’s twenty-seven, but don’t tell him that. It’s a little depressing to be away from everyone you love on your birthday. Still, he’s Archie, and Archie can (almost) always cheer up.]
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