[ leander’s not going anywhere soon. is that what he wanted? better off asking another: the magister, or whoever it was rutyer had a go at —
surely he didn't think isaac an optimist.
the hand tightens around his own. there's no affection in isaac's answering squeeze, there's no we beyond a certain guilty pulse. his free palm gropes for leander's neck, cups over the hole only to slip red. heat flares in the gap between flesh and fade; isaac's lip catches itself, gnaws. he's never tried to fix this before.
it's only quite now that he realizes his own exhaustion, how much this has already taken. it's time to run. give this up, find his bag, and go. now, before anyone thinks to look past the misshapen door and its simple latch. before the noises draw attention, the fatal kind. ]
Hold still,
[ it isn't gentle. neither, the radiant pressure in his wounds, plastering itself between receded skin and air. power stirs. need be coaxed, managed, lest it leap to something that festers. words repeat under his breath, inaudible and orlesian.
he's good. this much he might still manage — another day, on fresher spirits and other injuries; here and now he struggles to stem even the worst of it. something in the walls won't hold: slides off the little hurts to leave knuckles and nose still streaming. layer by fragile layer, divided between the worst, will and repetition close the hollows (motion still jerking them to weep). leander's neck, his chest,
the arms are a problem. he's lost a lot of blood. and these, monuments to it. isaac's bag, his useless bag, is still far and away. the sheets closer, not so easy to tear as in the stories.
no subject
[ leander’s not going anywhere soon. is that what he wanted? better off asking another: the magister, or whoever it was rutyer had a go at —
surely he didn't think isaac an optimist.
the hand tightens around his own. there's no affection in isaac's answering squeeze, there's no we beyond a certain guilty pulse. his free palm gropes for leander's neck, cups over the hole only to slip red. heat flares in the gap between flesh and fade; isaac's lip catches itself, gnaws. he's never tried to fix this before.
it's only quite now that he realizes his own exhaustion, how much this has already taken. it's time to run. give this up, find his bag, and go. now, before anyone thinks to look past the misshapen door and its simple latch. before the noises draw attention, the fatal kind. ]
Hold still,
[ it isn't gentle. neither, the radiant pressure in his wounds, plastering itself between receded skin and air. power stirs. need be coaxed, managed, lest it leap to something that festers. words repeat under his breath, inaudible and orlesian.
he's good. this much he might still manage — another day, on fresher spirits and other injuries; here and now he struggles to stem even the worst of it. something in the walls won't hold: slides off the little hurts to leave knuckles and nose still streaming. layer by fragile layer, divided between the worst, will and repetition close the hollows (motion still jerking them to weep). leander's neck, his chest,
the arms are a problem. he's lost a lot of blood. and these, monuments to it. isaac's bag, his useless bag, is still far and away. the sheets closer, not so easy to tear as in the stories.
the story. he's going to need one. ]