Previously: The Legend of Leonard Letterman, Pt 39
He also had the growing impulse to cry, something Leonard hadn’t done in many years; he wasn’t ashamed by it, though. The growing stress and frustration of the overwhelming unknown of the past two days was enough to make anyone weep, not to mention Leonard’s multiplying qualms and Wolfhart’s harsh, if true, words.
Leonard pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, resting his elbows on his now pulled up knees, the back of his skull pushed up against the cool stone of the wall. He wanted to melt into the surroundings, maybe become a piece of furniture…useful furniture…
He thudded his head against the wall, trying to knock those thoughts from his mind, but more just seemed to creep in through the cracks. With a frustrated growl Leonard wrenched his hands away from his face and dejectedly glanced around the room.
Its homey feel seemed to have left with Wolfhart. The shadows looked more menacing than sleepy sweeps of a painter’s brush along the walls; the walls themselves now seemed to crowd him instead of enveloping him like a cozy blanket.
The glint of his sword’s hilt caught Leonard’s eye. He ruefully wondered if it would do any good to practice the few things he’d learned. Wilhelmina had said that endurance and muscle memory were some of your greatest assets in a fight.
Leonard soon dismissed the idea; it was entirely too likely he would hurt himself or destroy something in the small space of the room, not to mention he highly doubted Wolfhart would be impressed by any number of hours Leonard may put into practicing at this point. He also had a notion that Wolfhart would find fault with him even if Leonard had been a skilled fighter, but it gave him not comfort.
He wrenched his gaze from weapons and Wolfhart from his thoughts. Leonard’s gaze shifted around the room again, looking for a focus for his mind as much as his eyes. Sometimes he followed the creases where stone met stone from one corner to the next. Eventually this calmed him enough for pieces of other recent conversations to bubble up.
Such as Coppa calling Leonard his mate and a good man, words that warmed Leonard’s heart in his disheartened state; Coppa’s imploring Leonard to make his own mind up about things. Leonard mulled that one over that for a while. He settled on wishing that Coppa had stayed to explain further, if not to deter less welcome company.
Leonard’s thoughts turned to Ursa. He would have preferred that even she had stayed longer too. She wasn’t the most welcoming of people, but even she seemed to have the makings of a friend; she had vowed to help him after all, whatever that specification was supposed to imply.
Leonard’s shoulder warmed where Ursa had squeezed it, like she had only just removed her hand. Leonard moved his hand to that shoulder, imagining giving Ursa’s hand a grateful squeeze of his own. It brought him more comfort than he expected, enough to further loosen the cords of despair compressing his chest, giving hope more room to maneuver and grow.
He had no idea how long he’d been sitting on the hard floor, but it was long enough that
his limbs were starting to ache and protest. Leonard rose slowly to his feet, letting his body stretch itself from its previously crumpled form.
He stepped away from the wall and took a deep breath as he stretched his arms behind his back, the muscles of his chest pulling as his back cracked, easing some of the tension that had been there. Then he shrugged and shimmed his shoulders to loosen them as well.
Finally, Leonard felt like he might be in a place to make some decisions, and maybe work out a plan.
Click here for part 41!