That his ears are ringing in that golden light so fiercely that all he sees is an equally bright smile and the steady wash of that strong finger slow against his shoulder. That it stays that way for hours— the too-good, too-strong, too-otherworldly (for there was no light nor color in the world he knew across two centuries,) yet ever-present brush of something that must be compassion. Track marks he should grasp through concept alone, and yet it all slips steadily through slackened fingers and wetted eyes, encircling him until even his pitifully brittle bones ache. A gnashing in the jaw, empty. So restless that living, beating heart he has to call his own by what logic dictates through the lack of ashen agony bucks up again and again against his lungs. His throat. Not nausea, but the inverse of it: he wants to swallow everything and never let it go.
Instead, he simply buckles inwards, and weeps.
The next thing he knows, they're in the saddle.
Is it a day later? Hours later? How did he get here? He must've agreed to it, but Hells if it wasn't wholly automated reflex (what a thrill to think it that, rather than frantically searching for Cazador's taut strings— but he's so far, and the sunlight is so warm)—
Which thankfully reminds him of the present as the clinging albinic elf on horseback plummets back into remembering the sharp pain piercing through his palm, and that said pain is firmly attached to a madman's war, and all unsettling ambitions therein contained. If his fingers dig into the back of Fenris' armor a little more, well—
That's a reflex, too.]
—erm. Sweetheart. Not to split hairs when there's a veritable feast of demons still roaming around somewhere through whatever rift I absolutely caused [is interrupted by a sidelong glance and a quick swipe of his knuckles along the underside of reddened eyes, still slightly stung from salt] but where in this city of yours do you intend to make your first stop?
no subject
That his ears are ringing in that golden light so fiercely that all he sees is an equally bright smile and the steady wash of that strong finger slow against his shoulder. That it stays that way for hours— the too-good, too-strong, too-otherworldly (for there was no light nor color in the world he knew across two centuries,) yet ever-present brush of something that must be compassion. Track marks he should grasp through concept alone, and yet it all slips steadily through slackened fingers and wetted eyes, encircling him until even his pitifully brittle bones ache. A gnashing in the jaw, empty. So restless that living, beating heart he has to call his own by what logic dictates through the lack of ashen agony bucks up again and again against his lungs. His throat. Not nausea, but the inverse of it: he wants to swallow everything and never let it go.
Instead, he simply buckles inwards, and weeps.
The next thing he knows, they're in the saddle.
Is it a day later? Hours later? How did he get here? He must've agreed to it, but Hells if it wasn't wholly automated reflex (what a thrill to think it that, rather than frantically searching for Cazador's taut strings— but he's so far, and the sunlight is so warm)—
Which thankfully reminds him of the present as the clinging albinic elf on horseback plummets back into remembering the sharp pain piercing through his palm, and that said pain is firmly attached to a madman's war, and all unsettling ambitions therein contained. If his fingers dig into the back of Fenris' armor a little more, well—
That's a reflex, too.]
—erm. Sweetheart. Not to split hairs when there's a veritable feast of demons still roaming around somewhere through whatever rift I absolutely caused [is interrupted by a sidelong glance and a quick swipe of his knuckles along the underside of reddened eyes, still slightly stung from salt] but where in this city of yours do you intend to make your first stop?