[It’s a quiet night, the smell of burning paper drifting in the air.
Pages upon pages of warm, laughing eyes and full lips rendered with a patient, loving hand greet him one last time before blackening beyond recognition and crumbling away. He closes his eyes a moment, letting out a slow breath before he tears out another page carefully along the edge of the notebook and feeds it to the flames, staring deeply and unseeingly into the ashes.
It was not the first time he had been in thrall to another’s whims, his mind and body not entirely his own. He had lashed out at himself first, tearing at flesh and feathers, and every curse he knew he had screamed at a god he had always known to be deaf to every word, beating the jeering ghosts of Rosaly and Hector and Dracula back into his mind. So many hours had been lost to a powerless, burgeoning rage that drained the life from him and left him tired, so tired in its wake, his head throbbing relentlessly. But he couldn't find sleep.
There is no doubt in his mind that Jack has spoken of their encounter and that Zevran must hate him for it. Writing him hadn’t been part of the plan when he had nursed a few glasses of wine, feeling it slosh around the hollowness inside him with every struggling, bitter swallow. But there are things that need to be said and have long needed to be said. Too little too late, he knows.
He doesn’t lift his head at the soft rustling of grass, waiting for it to draw nearer.]
action
Pages upon pages of warm, laughing eyes and full lips rendered with a patient, loving hand greet him one last time before blackening beyond recognition and crumbling away. He closes his eyes a moment, letting out a slow breath before he tears out another page carefully along the edge of the notebook and feeds it to the flames, staring deeply and unseeingly into the ashes.
It was not the first time he had been in thrall to another’s whims, his mind and body not entirely his own. He had lashed out at himself first, tearing at flesh and feathers, and every curse he knew he had screamed at a god he had always known to be deaf to every word, beating the jeering ghosts of Rosaly and Hector and Dracula back into his mind. So many hours had been lost to a powerless, burgeoning rage that drained the life from him and left him tired, so tired in its wake, his head throbbing relentlessly. But he couldn't find sleep.
There is no doubt in his mind that Jack has spoken of their encounter and that Zevran must hate him for it. Writing him hadn’t been part of the plan when he had nursed a few glasses of wine, feeling it slosh around the hollowness inside him with every struggling, bitter swallow. But there are things that need to be said and have long needed to be said. Too little too late, he knows.
He doesn’t lift his head at the soft rustling of grass, waiting for it to draw nearer.]