And all that could pierce his thoughts was the conclusion that these next few minutes would have been easier if liquor was circulating through his system. Perhaps if he had spent the better part of the afternoon in the shadowed corners of a tavern, the muscles of his hand wouldn't continuously form and collapse a fist over and over. His breath, perhaps, wouldn't catch itself, or his mind wouldn't travel to ashes held as a grave and the vision of a woman held in shackles for the second time in her lifetime. If there was liquor in his veins, he mind not have come here at all.
A hood shrouded his eyes as he made his way down the street, his boots shattering puddles that he hadn't set his gaze upon. This was how lost he had found himself, holding little care for where he walked, for usually he worked to keep himself as silent as possible, for his height already created difficulty when he tried to hide inside of a crowd, for one could spot him anyway. He had to rely on shadows for the better part of the days. Rather than spending his thoughts on keeping himself invisible on the road, he had to pray that the chaos found by the docks and what the knights were facing, that they wouldn't turn an eye to Atticus himself, that there focuses would be on greater sites than what would appear to be a simple citizen. And it was this prayer that he held as he walked from the safehouse to the center of the city, what he hoped would carry him to the doorsteps of the Inn, his gaze held level with the front door now, however, Atticus couldn't make himself cross the street.
He stood, as if his boots found a way to be cemented to the ground, for the same reasons he needed to see his brothers. He stood wondering if his brothers would hold the same ideas Atticus held about himself, those same doubts, the wondering if he was ever a good man, if there was a growing pile of all the people he couldn't save, and now it included the women who once gave him a second home and chance to live. It didn't matter what the world thought of Atticus, or how any other viewed him. He could live with the world believing him to be the villain until he was convinced himself, however, his brothers would always be another case, and there were too many bodies on his hands, to many to grieve for him to know if he could be forgiven, at least by his brothers. He could no longer guess what Garrett would believe him to be.
It took longer than Atticus wished for him to find his way into the Inn, his gaze making its way around the room ( the habit of searching for who was around him, for escape routes ) as he let down the hood, before approaching the woman who held herself at the desk, waiting for those who needed a room.
"Where is Elias?" ( His words were curt, and could have been more polite, but he wasn’t thinking of this at the time, for his voice was more breathless than anything else. )
Atticus would share how terrified he truly was with only one person.
