from the destruction, out of the flame
He smiles, even as the fog takes him to his knees.
But the shadow thing remains on his feet, watching.
Still the smile remains, even as the chest rattles and the air goes thin. Even, the shadow thing suspects, as the vision goes soft at its edges. And the fog does not retreat until the breath goes shallow, steady. He has not killed him, no, he has only brought him the rest he’d promised.
But Jamie feels no relief.
The joints still ache. The pulse still flutters with exhaustion. The knees still tremble with their own want to buckle. He sinks to the damp forest floor beside his keeper then, exhaling his own rattling breath. He reaches out to rest his mouth on the blue stallion’s shoulder, closing those bold yellow eyes, praying for sleep.
But it does not come. And he cannot command the fog to take him there.
There are several long moments where he waits. Waits for the pain to ease, waits for the awful clamor in his chest to soften. But it is so quiet here that he almost goes deaf with it.
The tremendous effort it takes him to stagger to his feet leaves his chest heaving, his own vision soft at the edges. He is so tired. The pain unbearable.
“Wake up,” he wheezes, quietly at first and then louder, “wake up.”
There is no venom in the voice. Only volume because he cannot reach out and shake him awake. He is not an angry thing, Jamie. He is too tired to be anything but tired.
“You lied,” he murmurs into the darkness. It is a mournful sound. “You lied to me.” So full up with sorrow that he almost chokes on it.
you need a villain, give me a name
jamie
