Sherlock

Who can say where the paths lead, or how the scales may balance in another decade? I suppose I can, but that is my curse. To watch, to see, until the ending of all things. We destroy. We rebuild. We destroy again. It is the constant of our kind. We are all a god’s chosen, and we are all a god’s cursed. —JON

I take his hand and lead him back up the mountainside. To his room, to mine, to the forest. To fire or lightning. It doesn’t matter. I am almost nineteen. I have nothing but time. To choose, to heal. To live.

“Thief,” he says simply, his voice deep. I look back at him over the rim of his glass, finishing the drink. “Obviously.”

“There aren’t many who deserve to be happy. I’m certainly not one of them, but here I am.” She leads me around a corner, winding us toward the entrance hall. “I think you might deserve it, Barrow.”

“But there is a difference between a single candle in darkness, and a sunrise.”