[ he skids to a stop just shy of running headlong into his death.
for a second, that's the biggest shock: three blades appearing out of nowhere, nearly cutting his own throat. he forgets about the door altogether, so it doesn't occur to him now to wonder about the fourth sword or how it countered saidin. but when he looks up from those weapons to his jailor, he forgets all about swords of magic.
that's what makes him recoil — not the implicit threat on his life, but the devastation he wreaked on her face, all that bloody, burnt, exposed flesh. he'd known what he was doing, throwing fire at her, but she was supposed to dodge. she wasn't supposed to — he hadn't meant to —
(he's doing a lot of thinking that, lately, he hadn't meant to)
— but the stern blue gaze, the indifference with the way she carries her wound, seems monstrous. like the dark one in that dream he'd had that wasn't a dream, but at least there was a way to wake up from that. he swallows down bile, and then he realizes he does know her face. or at least, he recognizes what's left of it. ]
Skye.
[ can't she feel it? the earlier horror and disgust bleeding through their legacy connection. the brief lapse into blank shock, and then the pulse of anger. another one who'd tricked him into thinking them an innocent native to horos. they'd talked, and laughed, and he'd admitted some fear of the ocean, and they'd even eaten together, and
he hasn't let go of the Power.
it just happened, he told akua just a couple of days ago about his attack on the regent. and she'd corrected: you mean you lost your temper. she'd been right; he had. he should consider his options more carefully now. what he does is throw another battering blast at the bars of his cell and, by extension, "skye," stronger than the last. ]
no subject
for a second, that's the biggest shock: three blades appearing out of nowhere, nearly cutting his own throat. he forgets about the door altogether, so it doesn't occur to him now to wonder about the fourth sword or how it countered saidin. but when he looks up from those weapons to his jailor, he forgets all about swords of magic.
that's what makes him recoil — not the implicit threat on his life, but the devastation he wreaked on her face, all that bloody, burnt, exposed flesh. he'd known what he was doing, throwing fire at her, but she was supposed to dodge. she wasn't supposed to — he hadn't meant to —
(he's doing a lot of thinking that, lately, he hadn't meant to)
— but the stern blue gaze, the indifference with the way she carries her wound, seems monstrous. like the dark one in that dream he'd had that wasn't a dream, but at least there was a way to wake up from that. he swallows down bile, and then he realizes he does know her face. or at least, he recognizes what's left of it. ]
Skye.
[ can't she feel it? the earlier horror and disgust bleeding through their legacy connection. the brief lapse into blank shock, and then the pulse of anger. another one who'd tricked him into thinking them an innocent native to horos. they'd talked, and laughed, and he'd admitted some fear of the ocean, and they'd even eaten together, and
he hasn't let go of the Power.
it just happened, he told akua just a couple of days ago about his attack on the regent. and she'd corrected: you mean you lost your temper. she'd been right; he had. he should consider his options more carefully now. what he does is throw another battering blast at the bars of his cell and, by extension, "skye," stronger than the last. ]