The vicious little rush of victory, and he's never needed a spell for this, to ruin a perfectly good thing. Isaac casts the poker aside, an anticlimactic clatter. Good, He thinks. This can end now.
Quietly: ]
Ilias, [ Who waited a week. Waited, and smiled, only to melt down here; a sculpture of distress. Ilias who has always been a little too good to be true. Who didn't fight in the war, not the way you mean, ] Are you going to tell me what's going on?
[ Or is he going to get (the hell) out? This is yet a perilous imbalance, the cards all in Ilias' hands (hand shaking on his face, and someone ought to take it —)
no subject
[ Ilias crumbles, and his first thought is: Good.
The vicious little rush of victory, and he's never needed a spell for this, to ruin a perfectly good thing. Isaac casts the poker aside, an anticlimactic clatter. Good, He thinks. This can end now.
Quietly: ]
Ilias, [ Who waited a week. Waited, and smiled, only to melt down here; a sculpture of distress. Ilias who has always been a little too good to be true. Who didn't fight in the war, not the way you mean, ] Are you going to tell me what's going on?
[ Or is he going to get (the hell) out? This is yet a perilous imbalance, the cards all in Ilias' hands (hand shaking on his face, and someone ought to take it —)
He doesn't. Palm coils about air. ]