[It's a smear across the page, beginning from the u outwards where his knuckles must've scraped against his wording— abruptly cut short in a doubletake still forming, still rearing, still beating hot between his frigid ears like the pulse he doesn't have.
Don't hitch, something in him hisses, don't pause, don't fall headlong into silence, imitating a voice he hasn't heard in years; protective mimicry, the diseased form of imitation, only perpetuating what he's striven to forget. Only making it a part of him by proxy—
Though perhaps it was part of him to begin with.
In bed, aside from the occasional noise from the broader section of their rented tavern lodgings— someone rustling through paperwork or shuffling in to dress and dine before the evening settles in— and the whimpering of a pup (growled at by a wolf), he can hear it all too clearly. But the book between his fingers— the drawled lines and all their conveyed fretfulness— is his backstay. His horizon.
It isn't for old memory that he angles the silver of his quill nib against parchment.]
no subject
[It's a smear across the page, beginning from the u outwards where his knuckles must've scraped against his wording— abruptly cut short in a doubletake still forming, still rearing, still beating hot between his frigid ears like the pulse he doesn't have.
Don't hitch, something in him hisses, don't pause, don't fall headlong into silence, imitating a voice he hasn't heard in years; protective mimicry, the diseased form of imitation, only perpetuating what he's striven to forget. Only making it a part of him by proxy—
Though perhaps it was part of him to begin with.
In bed, aside from the occasional noise from the broader section of their rented tavern lodgings— someone rustling through paperwork or shuffling in to dress and dine before the evening settles in— and the whimpering of a pup (growled at by a wolf), he can hear it all too clearly. But the book between his fingers— the drawled lines and all their conveyed fretfulness— is his backstay. His horizon.
It isn't for old memory that he angles the silver of his quill nib against parchment.]
what sort of design did she pick?