He doesn't know what any of this means. He can't read cards. Ask some, and they'd think it but a dalliance in sin and an act of devilry. However, Henry — eyes gone wobbly, her touch startling, warm, his trembling heart spooking as though a foal caught stumbling — wouldn't think that, his bones trembling more from the way she would spill her answer. Really, it all felt silly, admittedly, when he had believed her gift to be charming tricks at their best, but the depths of her staring bore far too deeply, hadn't it? Exposing. He feels half a chest rent apart with his soul laid bare.
"I am." Really. "I'm bearing it as I should," he tells her. He is. Those men he has slaughtered and those men that await him...! Frown deepening, it'd seem as though he had sat his conscious like a weary jury. "I'm nothing like them," their defendant would argue, his frenetic made gold with the lick of the flickering wicks. And it's true. Whether God or his sanity sat to argue him or not... "They have what's coming." Have earned it. And his thirsty dagger longs. Certainly, were this truly a confessional, he's sat before her blaspheming as he swears to act like God. How dare he. To act as though a judge who'll guide men unto their death, as no angel, she, her eyes so seeing, can't guard him either. / @ivessa, continued from here.
