[ His throat is raw, the rumble of it feels like a sandpaper-scrape, like those long days down in the fissures where the darkness and tight walls, and poor ventilation all left him hacking when he'd been a boy. He remembers this feeling, though every time since the first it's been an echo of the first, the first time he'd truly had to fight for his life, the first time he should have died and didn't. Again, and again, and again; and some of them he did β he reached up with trembling fingers, to rub at his neck, but β
He doesn't. His eyes are drawn to his knife, and Vergilius in an echo of him only hours before. It's how he'd contracted this a second time in his odd life. It clattered to the ground, and skidded across it, and it's only a half-thought that he should retrieve it, but he still can't move. Vergilius is still straddled over him. He ran his hands through his hair β a mockery of what he does himself, and his fingers itch to correct it, even though he does it for him.
He smirks back, sharp and perhaps a little brave. He should not challenge the man, but he does; as if he knows to do anything else. Silco had never learned to back down. ]
You'll have to learn to put up with me, I suppose. [ His voice is rough, still. He can feel a blossoming bruise on his neck, probably hand-shaped. ] Isn't that what you promised?
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[ His throat is raw, the rumble of it feels like a sandpaper-scrape, like those long days down in the fissures where the darkness and tight walls, and poor ventilation all left him hacking when he'd been a boy. He remembers this feeling, though every time since the first it's been an echo of the first, the first time he'd truly had to fight for his life, the first time he should have died and didn't. Again, and again, and again; and some of them he did β he reached up with trembling fingers, to rub at his neck, but β
He doesn't. His eyes are drawn to his knife, and Vergilius in an echo of him only hours before. It's how he'd contracted this a second time in his odd life. It clattered to the ground, and skidded across it, and it's only a half-thought that he should retrieve it, but he still can't move. Vergilius is still straddled over him. He ran his hands through his hair β a mockery of what he does himself, and his fingers itch to correct it, even though he does it for him.
He smirks back, sharp and perhaps a little brave. He should not challenge the man, but he does; as if he knows to do anything else. Silco had never learned to back down. ]
You'll have to learn to put up with me, I suppose. [ His voice is rough, still. He can feel a blossoming bruise on his neck, probably hand-shaped. ] Isn't that what you promised?