- Jun 9, 2022
- 570
- 289
- 63
It is the uncertainty that scrapes at the thick wool lining his heart.
On her, Dawnglare has never whiffed sickness. This clan was overfull with thick - skulled worriers. If she had stifled a sneeze or hacked a cough too - many, someone would have led breadcrumbs to him, even if she hadn't the care to find him herself... So was how it had always been, those that could not care for themselves would be shepherded by those with more sense... More did not mean substantial difference, no... But even the daftest amongst them could relent their biases in matters of life and death... Unavoidable truth, it was, that such a thing hung in his balance. He is made to know things that he would rather not; bound by law to lend ear to every issue...
( And what if the tide is turning? What if unobjectionable excellence no longer outshines whatever bad they saw? What if need to live no longer exceeded the fear of treatment? There would be nothing that he's done to deserve it... And if such is the case, would that make the law of his compliance then null - and void? )
...No, Honeysplash's issue had never been his to deal with, but it seems that her corpse now was.
The look in their eyes is branded with a pain he has yet to witness. He doesn't believe any wound, any sickness, any cause of death that is witnessable would place anything quite like it into pallid eyes. As Butterflytuft is burdened with lavender, Dawnglare is left to sit idly by. Apprehension encourages the drawing of claws; the rub of one pale wrist to another... His eyes glimpse an uncertain horizon, and he begs of Her the question: just how badly have things gotten? Again, She is silent.
On her, Dawnglare has never whiffed sickness. This clan was overfull with thick - skulled worriers. If she had stifled a sneeze or hacked a cough too - many, someone would have led breadcrumbs to him, even if she hadn't the care to find him herself... So was how it had always been, those that could not care for themselves would be shepherded by those with more sense... More did not mean substantial difference, no... But even the daftest amongst them could relent their biases in matters of life and death... Unavoidable truth, it was, that such a thing hung in his balance. He is made to know things that he would rather not; bound by law to lend ear to every issue...
( And what if the tide is turning? What if unobjectionable excellence no longer outshines whatever bad they saw? What if need to live no longer exceeded the fear of treatment? There would be nothing that he's done to deserve it... And if such is the case, would that make the law of his compliance then null - and void? )
...No, Honeysplash's issue had never been his to deal with, but it seems that her corpse now was.
The look in their eyes is branded with a pain he has yet to witness. He doesn't believe any wound, any sickness, any cause of death that is witnessable would place anything quite like it into pallid eyes. As Butterflytuft is burdened with lavender, Dawnglare is left to sit idly by. Apprehension encourages the drawing of claws; the rub of one pale wrist to another... His eyes glimpse an uncertain horizon, and he begs of Her the question: just how badly have things gotten? Again, She is silent.
