And why do you believe none of this exists? [ He looks to the torch— he can feel the heat of it. ] I guess it can't be helped.
[ The only way out is through. So he ventures into the dark, halting for a moment before going too deep, making sure Prior can manage the steps. But there's not very far to go. Even before he can crack wise about how he hopes this passageway leads to the Lady Lightfellow's chambers— the last pathway he followed through a well— he comes to a door that doesn't need to be opened.
When he steps through the threshold, the light in his hands goes out, vanishing with the torch. The space is lit by a single lamp, the kind with a flame kept sheltered by glass. Outside, it's the high part of night, though the moon isn't visible through the window.
This is an inn in the middle of nowhere. (A day's ride from Toran, on the main road, but still the middle of nowhere.) Nash is in the bed, fully clothed on top of the sheets, just blinking himself awake. He's young— younger than Prior had been, in his visions, or Nash's visions, or whatever— younger, but more recognizable. Nash hasn't changed much, not physically, over the past fifteen years. But he's lost something, a sort of verdant youth, that fades with too many presses of the razor, too many days in the sun.
The woman who is sitting on the foot of the bed looks even younger than he does. She's beautiful, but her face has none of that dewy quality. Her skin is nearly pale as the sheets, but her eyes are red.
no subject
[ The only way out is through. So he ventures into the dark, halting for a moment before going too deep, making sure Prior can manage the steps. But there's not very far to go. Even before he can crack wise about how he hopes this passageway leads to the Lady Lightfellow's chambers— the last pathway he followed through a well— he comes to a door that doesn't need to be opened.
When he steps through the threshold, the light in his hands goes out, vanishing with the torch. The space is lit by a single lamp, the kind with a flame kept sheltered by glass. Outside, it's the high part of night, though the moon isn't visible through the window.
This is an inn in the middle of nowhere. (A day's ride from Toran, on the main road, but still the middle of nowhere.) Nash is in the bed, fully clothed on top of the sheets, just blinking himself awake. He's young— younger than Prior had been, in his visions, or Nash's visions, or whatever— younger, but more recognizable. Nash hasn't changed much, not physically, over the past fifteen years. But he's lost something, a sort of verdant youth, that fades with too many presses of the razor, too many days in the sun.
The woman who is sitting on the foot of the bed looks even younger than he does. She's beautiful, but her face has none of that dewy quality. Her skin is nearly pale as the sheets, but her eyes are red.
"Nash?" she says. "Are you awake?"
It seems debatable. ]