he can hardly believe his own eyes. he almost feels like theatrically rubbing them with the edge of his palm, but decides against it. a fond, nostalgic smirk will have to do.
his eyes are heavy, only brought about by the even heavier weight on his shoulders. his eyes are heavy, nearly half-shut from a distinct weariness -- no thanks to the false calling, to dreams that push the lines of his sanity.
he silently wonders how much of that is evident. alistair stares into distances at times, as if everything he's ever been dealt is projected onto it (as barbaric markings on a cave, as writing in clouds, as imagery in a burning fire).
and, yet, he can't help but grin--so much so that the skin surrounding his eyes crinkle. he exhales through his nose, a makeshift laugh.
' you should write more. '