It's not an answer; rather, it's not the one she'd asked for. She allows him to linger a moment, to prepare, but it's still short work to slip about his side,
To stop and stare, despite herself. She's abruptly grateful he's not watching her face, the reflex she can't quite hide.
She's seen the like, but never to this degree. If Val Royeaux little went in for this breed of discipline, some of the outlying abbeys had left marks enough upon their recruits. Others, nursing more private sins —
— They used to joke of it (was there anything they hadn't?), she and Arnault. Used to make their small remarks of those whose piety was screwed in so tightly to pain. Young and untested and certain in themselves, they hadn't understood to look upon it: half self-loathing, half insane competition. Who's the sorriest son of a bitch?
Holding her hands over a flame every night, Arnault on his knees until they gave out. Both of them struggling to reach, to prove, to force the unseen into flesh. No, she hadn't understood it then; she doubts she does now. She doesn't understand, but she knows the burn of her lungs each morning, the way that it flares to swallow conscious thought. She knows a little of what it is, to rend oneself.
This is on another level.
(Some of it so recent — must have been while he'd still been rooming with Ashlock —)
"Here," She tries hard to hold her voice still, isn't sure whether she's succeeded. A hand out for the rag. "Stretch your arm. Do not let the blood pool."
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To stop and stare, despite herself. She's abruptly grateful he's not watching her face, the reflex she can't quite hide.
She's seen the like, but never to this degree. If Val Royeaux little went in for this breed of discipline, some of the outlying abbeys had left marks enough upon their recruits. Others, nursing more private sins —
— They used to joke of it (was there anything they hadn't?), she and Arnault. Used to make their small remarks of those whose piety was screwed in so tightly to pain. Young and untested and certain in themselves, they hadn't understood to look upon it: half self-loathing, half insane competition. Who's the sorriest son of a bitch?
Holding her hands over a flame every night, Arnault on his knees until they gave out. Both of them struggling to reach, to prove, to force the unseen into flesh. No, she hadn't understood it then; she doubts she does now. She doesn't understand, but she knows the burn of her lungs each morning, the way that it flares to swallow conscious thought. She knows a little of what it is, to rend oneself.
This is on another level.
(Some of it so recent — must have been while he'd still been rooming with Ashlock —)
"Here," She tries hard to hold her voice still, isn't sure whether she's succeeded. A hand out for the rag. "Stretch your arm. Do not let the blood pool."
Give him a distraction. Give her one, Maker.