[Oisín@Hal, postcanon] Oisín is a giant of a man. Taller than Hal by far- but not nearly as broad, and hunched, always, shrouded in his hair. He came here seeking Miranda's company, not Hal's, but it is what it is. Pirates still make him nervous, even--ones like Gates. Maybe especially ones like Gates. "You sailed with Captain Avery, so I'm told," Oisín says, quietly. He's staring at Hal through his hair, the bright, mismatched eyes wide and wild. "And then Flint. And now no-one?"
Hal had been sitting on the sandy steps, bare feet pushing into warm ground. The morning, hot and still, had stolen past him unawares.His elbows are resting heavy on splayed legs, a thin knife in hands working skilfully at a soft, pale chunk of wood. It barely resists his flicks, melting gently under his fingers into whatever mysterious shape he alone had seen in the gnarled, salted driftwood half buried under rank kelp and rotting shells. The grain feels firm in his hand, spooled up under the cracking, sun blanched shell like a ream of thread, waiting to be felt and followed. Unwound, unearthed and sewn anew. His mind is calm as he traces the edges, sloughing away unwanted slivers. Far from thoughts and frets, he follows his hands, and it takes him minutes longer than it should to notice he’s being watched. Hands clench too hard around his blade and quarry.He stills himself slowly, chin lifting to see the thin, bent shape in front of him; a shock of hair and eyes, almost clinging to the edge of the only fruiting tree on their land. He recognises him, man with bees, he thinks. He recalls the fond twinkle in Miranda’s eyes, the gentle warmth of Thomas’ smile and James - even James. There had been no warning in his voice concerning that name.
The lad’s said something. Hal has to shake his head a little to pull the day back to him, before catching the question.
And now no-one?
He fixes him with a stare, unblinking but not unkind, and hums in agreement.
“Aye, and now no-one.”
He’s enormous, Hal realises. Taller than Thomas, but he peeks through his wild curls like a child. His voice is like song, and softer than rain on still waters. Hal sees a depth of life in his curious, hidden eyes: a bright mind gazing over the world like a boy in a pond lifting rocks. Turning them thoughtfully, stroking the worms, seeing so much and understanding nothing.
“Now I sit in the sun, lad.” He offers him a smile, and shifts a little. Freeing up the step beside him. Holds out his flattened palm, to show him his handiwork.“Whittle wood when it speaks to me. Sleep when I need. Take my time with the people I love.” He beckons him over with a jerk of his head. “Eat that damn fine honey, when Miranda shares it.”
Hal waits a little, letting the silence build and bloom between them. Pushes his knife carefully over the emerging shape in his hand, smoothing off the head of the creature and waiting for movement, a reply, or peace.