your eyes burn. your heart slams. your mouth is dry. you have to make sure he’s safe, safe, safe. you think this obsessively. you can’t stop it. if he’s safe, if he’s okay, if he’s breathing, you’re doing your job. if you’re bleeding, you’re doing your job. if you’re hurting you’re doing your job.
(what you know of shar (too much at the sound of shadowheart’s incessant zealotry and too much on basis of reading swiped from the house of grief), you know she venerates suffering, openly adores the sensation of a death rattle, and that you’d make a wonderful sharran. you taste the irony, hot metal in your back molars. your dagger yearns for a goddess’s breast to bury it in.)
you glance away. fleetingly.
“fuck you.”
your throat is dry. your eyes burn. a tear falls idly and it dots the ground in a wet spot you stare at. you sit back on your haunches.
“you don’t know that. don’t sell me a tall tale. i expect more from you, wish. you’re better than that.”
@mindhallow
