WHEN — ｡ ‘✧ 1845. 25th july. WHERE — ｡ ‘✧ the promethean. officer’s corridor. WHO — ｡ ‘✧ @devotedrowning
The speech rests uneasy on his tongue: fluttering, really. Pulsing about like an insect’s wing, a dandelion’s needle thrown into the exhale. It has nothing of necessity in it, but the polar opposite. Feels inconsequential and easily to be done away with: no, begging to be done away with, spat out in mouthfuls and damned be the outcome. It cannot be wise, Vladya thinks. Temporizes. All shilly-shally, all knotted bones and cracked knuckles. But then Roimata crops into view, notices him, gives a nod of recognition. And Vladimir cannot back away without punting rudeness.
❝ Roi. ❞ Bloody damn: if he could toy with his hair like a damsel at this moment, he would. Would gladly twirl something, anything on his finger, would gladly pounce upon any pretext to look down. Askance. But he tries to breathe out through the impulse: dispel it into the winter winds which suddenly began to loom about the ship’s hull. Sigh years of uncertainty away. Scatter years of lies, of carefully curated notions, half-truths, half-chances. Bravery done in increments too small to count. ❝ Roi, there was—is a matter I wanted to talk to you about. A truth, of sorts. We can tackle it later, if you’re ordered to go somewhere now, but in all honesty... I don’t quite trust myself with the wait. So it should be, I mean, if it can be now, it should be... well, now. ❞
