#drochrud

«  I do believe you won’t be as disappointing as your brother.  but we shall see.  there is so much work to do.  »    mouth curls in a smile,  but it looks too much like an animal baring his teeth,  sharp and pointed,  to look anything close to reassuring.

       in the cold embrace of darkness in the cell she shares with her own mind and the’demons’ who come to torment her Nasuada moves just a bit, her hand trembles and touches Murtagh’s arm. “If what you say is true...” she holds the words in her mouth long enough to make them mean something “Free me” the last phrase felt like a release or more so like a wish. To be free... away from this hellish place.

The words slip from his mouth and her heart dance she can heart it, feel it.                   badum,badum, badum she hated it, the way her knees would grow weak with just those gentle’s words. she hated it to the point to bit her lips and bleed, she hated it so badly and yet. She longed for it, for the way his brows would arch or the smudge grin on his face, the scars, the deep voice, the gleam of his eyes. Nasuada swallows hard and she feels her body shaking, her hands now fists and knuckles becoming white. She knows how to bury her rage, her love, her sadness.    around them the city burns, there’s chaos and screams and fire and in that hellish landscape she is aware for the first time of her own emotions, her feelings toward a man who tortured her, burn her, cut part of her she never knew she had. Twisted feelings she wish to vanish but holds to them like they were some beacon.        Don’t get her wrong, she understand the circumstances of Murtagh, knows them well and is intelligent enough to separate that, yet her pride cannot forgive, the people under her rule won’t forgive and even if he saved her in more than one way. She must not succumb to sentimentalism. She holds her tears and bites her lip until she had enough, this was worse that when she faced the trial of knives. He was opening his heart to her, showing her with few words what he felt and yet the varden leader finds no other words than. “is this a goodbye, then?”

A LOW HUM ESCAPES THE CONFINES OF HIS THROAT,  as hues the color of dried blood find the young man and bore into his own.  oh,  he enjoys making people uncomfortable in his presence  (  some even squirm under his gaze,  how delightful  !  ),  but this time is purely a matter of interest that warrants for such a focused stare.  Murtagh Morzansson might just be the most interesting person he could find around the palace,  especially since the passing of the years and the king’s arrogance have dulled the sparkling bright flame of their partnership. the shade settles himself,  back against one of the massive throne room doors  (  the guards don’t dare utter a word about it,  clever boys,  they just might survive their service  ),  head slightly tilted to the side as he regards the words.  history repeats itself..  he likes the ambiguity they hold,  the way they could mean a great number of things  :  Morzan’s son serving the empire,  yes,  but also..  the leading order succumbing to the bitter wheels of fate. «  quite right,  but don’t forget history is always written by the winners.  »    this too,  can hide different meanings,  yet Durza is hardly going to explain himself further than this.  let him wonder,  let him turn his words over and over in his head, or maybe he could just forget about them like they are nothing more than the ramblings of a wicked and vile creature.  the choice is up to him.

THE YOUNG RIDER POSES AN INTERESTING DEBATE,  a dilemma most people are bound to encounter during their lives.  much could be said on this matter and much has already been said or written about it,  yet there are no definite instructions for dealing with pain and certainly not ones which are valid for every person.  no matter how old or wise one could consider himself to be,  being immune to pain or grief remains an impossible feat.  silence stretches without Oromis uttering a single word,  for time is such a vastly different concept to elves,  but just when it would be reasonable to believe he has paid Murtagh’s words no mind a sympathetic expression takes over calm features. «  trying to forget our pain could be tempting,  perhaps,  but hardly possible,  or wise.  would you forget a part of yourself,  or rather accept it and grow because of it  ?  »