She recoils as if burnt. Fear flickers raw across her face in a rare, undisguised display —
— And she knows him.
Two years and another lifetime ago, a lot of good men’s lives ago (and bad men, and children, and all the others in between), but unmistakable now. The pale boy. The ghost of the Spire, already looking half a corpse.
"Never," She manages, because defiance is a shield for the unarmed. "You never forget the young ones."
But that's a lie, of course. Faces, names, they all blend. You forget the young ones too, you just never forget that they were young.
She can’t begin to make sense of it. But she doesn’t think she’s dreaming (So why hasn't anyone noticed him?). Back when old Lieutenant Courwin still spoke in whole sentences, he always spoke of how real his visions seemed. Real as anything, until they weren’t.
Maybe it’s what rips the words from her now with such uncharacteristic freedom: That kernel of certain doubt, this isn’t happening.
no subject
— And she knows him.
Two years and another lifetime ago, a lot of good men’s lives ago (and bad men, and children, and all the others in between), but unmistakable now. The pale boy. The ghost of the Spire, already looking half a corpse.
"Never," She manages, because defiance is a shield for the unarmed. "You never forget the young ones."
But that's a lie, of course. Faces, names, they all blend. You forget the young ones too, you just never forget that they were young.
She can’t begin to make sense of it. But she doesn’t think she’s dreaming (So why hasn't anyone noticed him?). Back when old Lieutenant Courwin still spoke in whole sentences, he always spoke of how real his visions seemed. Real as anything, until they weren’t.
Maybe it’s what rips the words from her now with such uncharacteristic freedom: That kernel of certain doubt, this isn’t happening.
"What are you?"