[ The slow ache of vicious certainty as written by ash and ember, or the severance of flesh, dropped as if already dead. An equally slow and unknowable sum of parts stitched by coagulated rage. It wells and then empties as if in drought: his own flesh and bone are useless to him if they would serve her better. But these are not his curses. There is only death, dawned. ]
No, she won't.
[ Cradling still, a sigil etched by trembling fingertip against growing fur in the brightness of two spilled bloods. To soothe in this moment, to press the evils she is reflecting down. This is not by fire, but by cool, placid drowning. ]
I'm sorry. I don't mean to make your method sound ineffective.
no subject
No, she won't.
[ Cradling still, a sigil etched by trembling fingertip against growing fur in the brightness of two spilled bloods. To soothe in this moment, to press the evils she is reflecting down. This is not by fire, but by cool, placid drowning. ]
I'm sorry. I don't mean to make your method sound ineffective.
[ It isn't. But he had to ask. ]