[Sounds of movement rouse him to awareness (barely), rumbling of furniture, the door (distant as his own heartbeat, quickly, lightly), and he cracks his eyelids to watch the hem of a dress glide in, sideways (the smear a little longer, now, painting his trail to the floor). His mouth flutters a smile, light as a moth.
Of course it would be her. Something stirs, some sense of—not comfort, but something—a gathering. Some vague significance. He should resent the Lady's involvement, the further complexity it creates, but in this misty-edged moment he's simply content to see her.
And while he has faded (is still fading, by the smallest increments), he's been listening, too.
The first try is a soundless whisper. The next, he licks his lips, lingers in meandering distraction at the taste of blood, and finally manages,]
Everything he says,
[A pause, both to catch his breath in shallow puffs, and to create a moment of suspense—even the dying can multitask—as he turns his gaze on Isaac. Hooded eyes in a mask streaked with blood and liquid salt. He lets loose the only weapon he can reach:]
is the truth.
[Take that, fucker. Let's see what you do with it.
His eyes close; his brow knits in controlled discomfort as he tries to shift the jut of his hipbone to a marginally more comfortable position against the floor.]
no subject
Of course it would be her. Something stirs, some sense of—not comfort, but something—a gathering. Some vague significance. He should resent the Lady's involvement, the further complexity it creates, but in this misty-edged moment he's simply content to see her.
And while he has faded (is still fading, by the smallest increments), he's been listening, too.
The first try is a soundless whisper. The next, he licks his lips, lingers in meandering distraction at the taste of blood, and finally manages,]
Everything he says,
[A pause, both to catch his breath in shallow puffs, and to create a moment of suspense—even the dying can multitask—as he turns his gaze on Isaac. Hooded eyes in a mask streaked with blood and liquid salt. He lets loose the only weapon he can reach:]
is the truth.
[Take that, fucker. Let's see what you do with it.
His eyes close; his brow knits in controlled discomfort as he tries to shift the jut of his hipbone to a marginally more comfortable position against the floor.]