continued from x ;
@dirthara-an
The inn is more fine than the last, with its finely-painted walls and the gilded furniture, the smell of baked bread and cured meats and bubbling ale perforated into the very wood what surrounds in these four, sturdy walls, and the window is open, always, for the two disciples of his Lord's blood, and Roland is forever doting.
"As canst I, my Lord God, but thus is bared a'fore thine pallor and the gentle inflection of thine careful Words. Thou art exhausted," frets Roland, as he confers with a small, iron stove in the corner of the room, and flits with a teapot and the sanctified satchel of littlest herbs for sleeping and intimate, spiritual well-being.
And yet, how confounding! The Lord of Sleep hast gone deliberate to remove that Ancient Adage of his own grounds and layabouts for his pleasure of magickal Prose; hast debated and decided to keep without that sacred Safety that is His Own yard.
And, as Roland confers and places pinches of delicate tea leaf into two cups, borrowed from the bottom of the bar downstairs, his movements dost pause, and slow, and come aground for a new Epiphany.
"Why dost thou naught to sleep?" asks he, as he looks to Him from o'er his shoulder, as the iron stove inflames and slowly grows warm.
