* * *
Making my way to the lake from the brush, I crouch down in front of my bag and pull out a bandage. I wrap my bitten hand in the cloth, making it a little too tight before loosening it to a sufficient amount.
Should be good enough for a grip.
I grab the fishing rod, putting on another hook and worm. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish, Cato throws himself upon his sword.
I may have lost the first fish, but I won't lose a second one.
Deciding to stand, possibly to increase awareness and combat thievery, I cast my line for a second time and pray. Twiddling my thumbs for more than I'd be willing to admit, I finally feel it catch on something.
I reel the line towards me only to realize... it's not a fish, I'm caught under a rock or something. I frown slightly, sighing and channeling a little mana into my fingers. With this mana, I heat my fingers and pinch the line, melting it off.
Now a little frustrated, I crouch in front of my bag and put on a third hook and worm. I walk back to my seat, picking up my fishing rod and casting a line.
I may have lost the first fish, AND THE SECOND ONE! But I won't lose the third. After all, I've got the formula for victory now.
Holding my fishing rod, I clunkily cast my line yet again and watch as the rod less-than-gracefully flies out of my bandaged hand and into the water.
*
*
*
For some time, I simply stare blankly at the surface of the water. My already unstable hands shake a bit more as I grip the air, wishing I had something that I could permit myself to throw.
I stand up, putting my hands on my hips as my lips crease and my brows furrow. A low and frustrated groan escapes me as I look up and down, my hands unclenching and clenching rapidly.
Blue sky, blue water, white clouds, red fish... one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. Now that my calm has been restored, I kick my chair over and stomp into the woods. You know what? Who even needs fishing? I wasn't good at it anyways!
* * *
Gram POV...
"Hey, does anyone know where Arthur went? I asked him what he was gonna do today and he just said 'gone fishing'."
I look around the room for any possible answers, receiving none more than simple shrugs. Eventually, Pridwen speaks up after finishing a word on her crossword.
"He's probably... fishing," She says before looking back down at the paper.
"How astute."
The room resumes its nursing home vibes a second later, everyone continuing like nothing happened. How come Arthur went fishing? I didn't know he liked fishing... or, at least, he never told me. How come he didn't invite me?
Isn't that the masculine dream? Alone at a lake with your best bro, no girls to pester you, no society to pressure you, no clothes... what?
I always used to make jokes like that in high school, but now I'm thinking stuff like that unironically and not as a joke. Am I gay? God, why doesn't google exist here so I could look it up?!? Like, I could use a Buzzfeed quiz or something-
"You know what I hate?" Variel starts a conversation out of nowhere, breaking the silence and looking up from her... crochet? Why does everyone have old people hobbies? "The government. As Jhomas Thefferson once said, the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants."
It's official, I'm in the fucking twilight zone. THESE PEOPLE CANNOT BE REAL-
* * *
Arthur Ishviel POV...
I should've thought harder about how much stuff I brought with me. I only brought fishing stuff, no snacks or anything. My stomach aches a little every few minutes, reminding me of my ever-present need to consume.
In other words, me hungy.
Stepping over a tree root, I find myself looking at the trees and grass more than the sky. The trees tell a story, what they've been through able to be seen with the naked eyes.
I stop that train of thought, wanting my thoughts to remain simple and stupid rather than preachy and overly-philosophical.
Every few feet, I swear I can hear some scuttling behind me, but I'm foolish enough to not think further. I, in this moment, am done with all woodland creatures and any related creatures. Maybe if mother nature wasn't pissed off at me all the time, then we would get along better.
In fact, mother nature is less like your mom and more like your grandma.
"How come you haven't given me grandchildren yet? I thought you had gotten taller since I last saw you, but you're just stood on a step-stool? Oh my grandson, what happened to your hair... and face???"
Whilst fairly normal thoughts on their own, mother nature really dislikes holding these thoughts inside. No, mother nature, I have not given you any grand children yet. Please stop asking, nothing has changed.
Shaking me from my thoughts, I hear a slight yelp behind me and turn around. There, silhouetted by the sun and sat like a french girl... is the salamander that stole my hook and fish. I can see the remnants of my line hanging out of its mouth, the lip punctured and torn from the hook.
While I think it's not exactly unjust to ignore the creature considering its trickery, I do not. I'm not some sadist who enjoys seeing animals in pain.
I set my bag down and slowly approach the salamander, making sure to keep my fist closed so my fingers look less appetizing. It doesn't bite me this time, allowing me to take a knee and lift my hand again.
I lightly pat it on its head to get used to me, feeling the slimy texture of it. It's hideous, but beautiful, in an ugly way. I watch its eyes blink out of time from one another, staring at me with a little mistrust.
Slowly reaching towards the hook, I continue petting it before lightly grasping onto the pronged section of the hook. I cut off any excess line with my burning finger trick, watching the bloody prong of the hook sink into my pointer finger and thumb before pulling it through the shank and out the eye.
Then, I stand up and slowly back off again to retain my fingers, tossing the hook in a bush as I watch the salamander dart off again.
Man... I hate nature.