[There is something of a revelation to her now. He watches its progress, in her countenance and the sharpening of her gaze. It's in the tight, controlled motion of her hands and the stubborn set of her jaw. Has he gone and made her angry, or simply given her cause to frustration?
He wipes the side of his dish clean with a hunk of bread, watches the stew seep back into place like blood on the sand. Part of him feels guilty, as if he should surrender something of himself on the altar of his misdeeds, recompense for having troubled her so. But he wonders how much of that guilt comes from how exactly she resembles Miranda. Christ almighty, they even share the same look of chagrin, fixed on him like the black bore of a gun.
(He thinks briefly of dark waters, gold coins and a ferryman, and he has to look away. He can't bear it. God help him, in this he is weak.)
The truth of the matter is thus: of fucking course he's curious. Of course he wants to grip her by the arms fit to press bruises into her skin and ask her, what of London, what of Nassau, what of history, what of my name, and yet he fears the answers she will have for him. Former pirate haven, she'd said. He may be successful now, he may be successful tomorrow, he may reign for a fortnight, for a decade, he may die on a throne of blood and bone but Nassau still falls. Through some... deficiency of his, he fails. He knows he cannot control what comes after his death, but he should have done something, made some provision for the storm to come. It is-- incogitable that he should have spent so much of his soul's currency, clawed his way so far, and failed.
He misses Thomas so much, so sharply in the moment that he simply cannot breathe. Blandly, he pats another piece of bread into the stew and chews on it to cover the siren, shipwreck song of emotions that roil beneath the surface of his ever-calm exterior. My love, he thinks to himself, not knowing if he would be addressing Thomas or Miranda if both or either stood before him, What have I done? He wanted only ever to grant the ghost of Thomas Hamilton some small peace, a light to guide his way in the hereafter, and even that he feels slipping away from him. The last tenuous grasp on humanity that he has left will go with it, and James McGraw will finally be as dead.
Everyone left in his path shall rue that fucking day. And just like that, he breathes again. The body wants to live, the will allows it. For now.]
I'm sorry if you feel my lack of inquiry stems from any disregard. That is... patently untrue. I have felt your companionship to be a balm, though I've not long known you. [He gestures a little, sharply, with his ringed hand, a crust of bread held perhaps too tightly in the curl of his fingers.] I am wary of troubling answers. No more.
no subject
He wipes the side of his dish clean with a hunk of bread, watches the stew seep back into place like blood on the sand. Part of him feels guilty, as if he should surrender something of himself on the altar of his misdeeds, recompense for having troubled her so. But he wonders how much of that guilt comes from how exactly she resembles Miranda. Christ almighty, they even share the same look of chagrin, fixed on him like the black bore of a gun.
(He thinks briefly of dark waters, gold coins and a ferryman, and he has to look away. He can't bear it. God help him, in this he is weak.)
The truth of the matter is thus: of fucking course he's curious. Of course he wants to grip her by the arms fit to press bruises into her skin and ask her, what of London, what of Nassau, what of history, what of my name, and yet he fears the answers she will have for him. Former pirate haven, she'd said. He may be successful now, he may be successful tomorrow, he may reign for a fortnight, for a decade, he may die on a throne of blood and bone but Nassau still falls. Through some... deficiency of his, he fails. He knows he cannot control what comes after his death, but he should have done something, made some provision for the storm to come. It is-- incogitable that he should have spent so much of his soul's currency, clawed his way so far, and failed.
He misses Thomas so much, so sharply in the moment that he simply cannot breathe. Blandly, he pats another piece of bread into the stew and chews on it to cover the siren, shipwreck song of emotions that roil beneath the surface of his ever-calm exterior. My love, he thinks to himself, not knowing if he would be addressing Thomas or Miranda if both or either stood before him, What have I done? He wanted only ever to grant the ghost of Thomas Hamilton some small peace, a light to guide his way in the hereafter, and even that he feels slipping away from him. The last tenuous grasp on humanity that he has left will go with it, and James McGraw will finally be as dead.
Everyone left in his path shall rue that fucking day. And just like that, he breathes again. The body wants to live, the will allows it. For now.]
I'm sorry if you feel my lack of inquiry stems from any disregard. That is... patently untrue. I have felt your companionship to be a balm, though I've not long known you. [He gestures a little, sharply, with his ringed hand, a crust of bread held perhaps too tightly in the curl of his fingers.] I am wary of troubling answers. No more.