[ And he glances over at her, lips twitching in a little bit of wry recognition of the fact that - no - she's not bothering to protect his feelings, is she? Ah, well. Because it is his feelings at risk, here. Because all that's coming is - ]
A walking, talking piece of shit.
[ And here that piece of shit comes. It's a tall boy, probably seven years' Byerly's senior, obviously a relative - those lovely dark eyes are evidently a trait common to his clan. He's athletic and lean and muscular, confident, loping easily along - making half as much noise as By had even though he easily weighs twice as much. He grins as he spots By, and comes and grabs the branch he's standing on and shakes it till By falls to the ground. And Byerly doesn't try to run again - instead, he curls into a defensive ball, yanking in all his limbs and tucking in his head, eyes squeezed shut.
"Give me your arm, By." Richars' voice is low and warm, but there's just a little bit too much quickness to his breath. That's the sort of excitement only a sadist has.
"No."
"Give me your arm," Richars says, "or I'll go and find your sister." And there's a long silence, during which Byerly doesn't move or breathe. Then his eyes come open, and they're red-rimmed - but they're dry. He extends his left arm. Richars takes it.
Byerly, the older version, watches all of this with an ironic little smile on his face. He doesn't even flinch when Richars snaps the boy's arm. Stoicism that's not new - the Byerly of memory doesn't let loose anything more than a soft sigh when the bone breaks. ]
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A walking, talking piece of shit.
[ And here that piece of shit comes. It's a tall boy, probably seven years' Byerly's senior, obviously a relative - those lovely dark eyes are evidently a trait common to his clan. He's athletic and lean and muscular, confident, loping easily along - making half as much noise as By had even though he easily weighs twice as much. He grins as he spots By, and comes and grabs the branch he's standing on and shakes it till By falls to the ground. And Byerly doesn't try to run again - instead, he curls into a defensive ball, yanking in all his limbs and tucking in his head, eyes squeezed shut.
"Give me your arm, By." Richars' voice is low and warm, but there's just a little bit too much quickness to his breath. That's the sort of excitement only a sadist has.
"No."
"Give me your arm," Richars says, "or I'll go and find your sister." And there's a long silence, during which Byerly doesn't move or breathe. Then his eyes come open, and they're red-rimmed - but they're dry. He extends his left arm. Richars takes it.
Byerly, the older version, watches all of this with an ironic little smile on his face. He doesn't even flinch when Richars snaps the boy's arm. Stoicism that's not new - the Byerly of memory doesn't let loose anything more than a soft sigh when the bone breaks. ]
I'd forgotten about this one.