﹙ ＊ ﹚ &* @silvreflames ᶜᵒⁿᵗ'ᵈ.
𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, where only a mouse or doe may happen upon it. w̳i̳t̳h̳o̳u̳t̳ ̳d̳i̳s̳c̳u̳s̳s̳i̳n̳g̳ ̳i̳t̳, thorn and murtagh ended up 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 a life to hide themselves within ‒‒‒‒‒ a private, ever-changing home beneath 𝑎 𝑐𝑒𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 where they might camouflage 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 as well as lick them. and yet he keeps stumbling into 𝖚𝖓𝖛𝖊𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌 the parts of himself that are hurting still, keeps having to speak 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎 on the way out of his mouth.
𝖙𝖍𝖊 wineskin passes back and forth like a burning torch, like a tourney lance. in the end he can never help but 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝒂 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡. leaving, being 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 ‒‒‒‒‒ is there a gentle way to say i have tried both? somewhere in the distance, thorn's great chest 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕. feels, again, his rider’s l̳i̳t̳t̳l̳e̳ ̳h̳e̳a̳r̳t̳ packed too tight with rage and shame, too devoid of hope. yes, there is 𝖆 𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖗 irony to being hard to kill.
murtagh drinks. as formidable as he used to be on dance floors and in 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴, he would fare better still 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 ; as good as he had once been with words, he always 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎. nothing for it, never anything for it. ❛❛ 𝕚 say ( ... ) ❜❜ and he thinks of 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 h̳a̳u̳n̳t̳e̳d̳ ̳b̳y̳ ̳g̳h̳o̳s̳t̳s̳, by discarded souls ; of beings cleaved from this life, having irrevocably surrendered parts of themselves 𝑏𝑒𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑏 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒. ❛❛ there is nothing down that path. no freedom. no peace. ❜❜