Solo Log: Not Crazy

**Winter, 472 AOV**

Tinker preferred to stay under a roof when he could, which meant nights in town far more often than Fijit was initially used to. She was just as content under the stars or her ramshackle tent as Tinker tucked away indoors, and she preferred to stand out far less than he did. No matter her behavior, her diminutive size and vibrant spring coloring set her apart.

Tonight he noted that something else was contributing, as well.

They'd retired to the busy inn after hours of work with a farmer's watering system, exhausted and dirty and ready for a quick meal and some rest. But Fijit had abruptly declined supper, instead settling off to the far corner of the kitchen with a book and her back to him. Alone, she seemed to be thinking out loud, though he couldn't hear what she was saying. Occasionally, she stopped to take a few notes.

"I can't believe it. Nell, and her first child. And with a proper healer! Who would've thought?"

The chattering women are oblivious to his presence at the table beside them, and thus paying no mind to him listening in.

"She was so young. Totts is devastated," the other replies with a sigh. "Such a senseless loss."

Across the room, he noticed his charge stiffen. He's certain it was unintentional, the way her ears twitched when she overheard the women's chatter, the way she turned her head just slightly to peek their way.

"Did they choose a name for the newborn? Even if he didn't survive the birth, he shouldn't go to his grave unnamed…"

"Mills, I think. After Nell's father."

Fijit sinks in her seat, and he doesn't realize she's trying to sneak away until she disappears under the table entirely. He would've missed her creeping off had she not reappeared against the near wall, tip-toeing off. Nobody looks away from their meals, the gossiping women included, and Tinker thinks for a moment that she would have successfully snuck away had he not been watching. She stops by the stairs, glancing up towards the rooms, before slipping through the front door.

He waits, an agonizing sixty seconds, before he hops from his own seat and follows. He doesn't want her to feel pressured, but he also doesn't want to lose her, and Tinker knows that those tiny legs of hers can carry her far off when she sets her mind to it. Out front is dimly lit with an old oil-burning lantern, and he can't see much further than the stone steps and the beginning of a cobbled path.

Thankfully, she hadn't gone far. From the doorway, he can hear quiet murmuring. Most of what's being said is difficult to parse out, but he picks up on what he would swear was *I can tell them, if you'd like,* though it makes no sense to him.

Preoccupied, she doesn't notice him approach at all, and doesn't react until he's crouched beside her with a hand on her shoulder. In the glow of the distant lantern, she's pale and cast in shadows.

"You shouldn't wander off without telling anyone," he starts, wary. Something about her expression--scared, anxious, mournful--sets him on edge.

"S-sorry, T-Tinker. I...I got--" her eyes flick away from him, to her right where he sees nothing. For a long moment, she's silent, as if she'd forgotten entirely she was talking with him. Just as he was about to shake her again, to pull her attention back to him: "D-d-distracted. Sorry."

He sits in the grass beside her, close enough that his shoulder still brushes against hers. In their time together, he's learned that she's a very tactile person who has little concern regarding personal space. A byproduct of traveling in crowded quarters as one of three children, he supposes. She shifts to curl her legs to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and resting her forehead against her knees. "What's wrong?"

"Oh--it's...it's n-nothing."

"I don't believe that for a second."

She's shivering; he leans a bit closer. "You're g-g-going to think I'm c-crazy."

"You don't think *I'm* crazy, do you?"

Abruptly she sits back up, properly horrified. "What? I wouldn't ever--"

"So what makes you think I would feel any other way?"

She shrinks again, shaking her head. "Everyone does. Th-they say I c-can't t-talk to dead p-people. But I swear I'm not m-making it up! Miss N-N-Nell, she wants to say sorry t-to Mister Totts, but he's g-gonna think the s-same thing everyone else d-does, or g-g-get *angry*, and--"

He turns, shifting so he can sit in front of her, and grabs either side of her face to stop the nervous prattling. Wide-eyed, she stares. "I don't think you're crazy, Fijit. Just because I haven't *met* a medium before doesn't mean they don't exist."

"B-but--"

"There are plenty of documented occurrences of mediums throughout history. *True* mediums, not the ones who prey on the bereaved. Whoever told you that you were 'crazy' for your talent was wrong."

This time she says nothing. Sniffling, tears fill her eyes, and he wonders just who convinced her that she was so strange, that she might believe them and take the criticism to heart. He's quick to shove down the anger on her behalf; Fijit never seems to like it when he fusses for her.

"I mean that," he adds, insistent. "I can see it's been difficult, but you are not crazy. Speaking with the dead is a gift, *not* a sign that something is wrong with you."

He's gentle as he pulls her closer, tucking her head on his shoulder and wrapping her in a tight hug; she sobs, fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt as he whispers reassurances and rubs small circles into her back. Tinker holds her there, rocking gently to try and soothe her the only way he's ever known how, and waits.

Voice small and muffled, she eventually manages to answer him again, though she makes no attempt to move from where he's tucked her against him. "Thank you, T-Tinker."