jamie
from the destruction, out of the flame
There is some thrill in it, certainly. Some darkness that he takes great comfort in.
He had lost his conscience but he had not lost his capacity for emotion. There is delight in this. In the prospect of her owing him something, though he would never admit this out loud. In the prospect of his dark home being dragged out of the depths in which he’d found it to this world so he would not have to die again to reach it.
It is evident, plainly so, that both of them emerged from the otherworld changed. Darker. He remembers the girl who had wanted to help heal him. There had been darkness in her then, too, but this is something altogether different. How far the two of them have sunk.
But he’s still watching the old stallion when she tells him what he is owed. Fourth would have been poetic indeed, but he has never been concerned with the concept of poetry. Three is plenty, he thinks, especially because she does not truly owe him anything. He is not what she thinks he is, but he will let her go on thinking it. There is some strange power in it, he finds, and he sees no purpose in relinquishing it.
He watches her go to the old roan, watches her touch him, and the thrill at the very core of him compounds. It flutters outward until his veins are humming with it. He drags in a sharp, rattling breath when she gives him permission to look away. But he will not. He will go on watching like the dark thing that he is.
He is not the weak thing he had been once. He never will be again.
But he does not say this, merely shakes his head and, almost giddy, says, “go on.”
you need a villain, give me a name
@[Beyza]