There are days, entire weeks, that Cedric doesn't tense for some off-hand display: The casual gleam of a warming glyph, the creep of spell-grown skin. There are even moments, rarer still, that some piece of him forgets to be afraid.
That piece is all of them, now; never burned, and so never shy. Scars smooth over soft as putty. His ears are whole. His beard is grown. And yet — evidently dishuman. That ought to be a problem. Maybe somewhere, in distant Tevinter, it still is. There's a reason he's here, after all, that Riftwatch is fighting (winning) this war.
There’s a reason. If he doesn’t look too closely, it can’t slip away.
"Got a letter," Mail call. He slides it onto her desk, sealed in thick wax; the shape worked such that only Ness' mind can name. "Think 's from your ma."
no subject
That piece is all of them, now; never burned, and so never shy. Scars smooth over soft as putty. His ears are whole. His beard is grown. And yet — evidently dishuman. That ought to be a problem. Maybe somewhere, in distant Tevinter, it still is. There's a reason he's here, after all, that Riftwatch is fighting (winning) this war.
There’s a reason. If he doesn’t look too closely, it can’t slip away.
"Got a letter," Mail call. He slides it onto her desk, sealed in thick wax; the shape worked such that only Ness' mind can name. "Think 's from your ma."