( He is not long for this world, this he knows with certainty. They haunt him, wisps of light and voice and the long, pained stabbing of their presence, how they look for him and whittle him down, like teeth grazing.
He heaves, more than he breathes, cannot recuperate himself. Tires. Always a string of exhaustion lines and weighs on his bones, and he goes to his priests, to his finer men, to the one he purposefully commissioned — at night, with a slow, tempered knock. This is his ship, but if he has granted a man his own cabin, he will afford him the privilege of discretion and the exclusivity of privacy that come with it. )
Please. Please, I hear them again. They're with me. They won't let go. Please.
( He knows how often he has asked before, knows it's futile to beg: his ghosts grow silent for heartbeats, then revive once more. )
no subject
He heaves, more than he breathes, cannot recuperate himself. Tires. Always a string of exhaustion lines and weighs on his bones, and he goes to his priests, to his finer men, to the one he purposefully commissioned — at night, with a slow, tempered knock. This is his ship, but if he has granted a man his own cabin, he will afford him the privilege of discretion and the exclusivity of privacy that come with it. )
Please. Please, I hear them again. They're with me. They won't let go. Please.
( He knows how often he has asked before, knows it's futile to beg: his ghosts grow silent for heartbeats, then revive once more. )