( Why is it that he is become this, the laughingstock of an artillery of spirits, cast each way like sullen wind? That his bones creak, he loses purchase of his balance at each step, he strives and struggles to crawl back up, flattened against the doors and upholding them, upholding himself, as if he were a caterpillar climbing a young spring stalk —
And the girl seems content, hardly disturbed in her ownership of the room, frail shadow fractured on cold stone. It occurs to him, when another quake of the door hurls him on hands and knees and all but begging, that he might advance their situation the easier, the better if he were to request aid.
No. No, no. Better to throw himself back at the doors once more. As men courting a concussion do. )
I possess — ( Grant him a moment, the jostling might have propelled his lungs into his throat. ) — a sword.
no subject
And the girl seems content, hardly disturbed in her ownership of the room, frail shadow fractured on cold stone. It occurs to him, when another quake of the door hurls him on hands and knees and all but begging, that he might advance their situation the easier, the better if he were to request aid.
No. No, no. Better to throw himself back at the doors once more. As men courting a concussion do. )
I possess — ( Grant him a moment, the jostling might have propelled his lungs into his throat. ) — a sword.
( And swords, well. They heal everything. )