[ Aymeric's hand goes very still in response, and he murmurs, both unsettled and curious: ]
I do.
[ He runs his fingers over the contours of them, shapes that must be horns. Francel likely knows, he supposes — he must be waiting for the moment when they split his skin, as though it could happen all at once, without warning. Aymeric remembers the tales they learned as children; he remembers the promises the priests made in their sermons: when a heretic is remade in the image of his masters, he feels pain unimaginable, incomparable — he would die of it in an instant, but his body is unnatural, twisted, resistant to Her mercy, knows only torturous suffering and witless rage...
Struck again by pity, he draws his fingertips to Francel's nape, tracing soothing circles. ]
We should find an apothecary on the morrow, in any case.
[ Even a long night of discomfort is best prepared for, and agony seems nearly as likely. ]
no subject
I do.
[ He runs his fingers over the contours of them, shapes that must be horns. Francel likely knows, he supposes — he must be waiting for the moment when they split his skin, as though it could happen all at once, without warning. Aymeric remembers the tales they learned as children; he remembers the promises the priests made in their sermons: when a heretic is remade in the image of his masters, he feels pain unimaginable, incomparable — he would die of it in an instant, but his body is unnatural, twisted, resistant to Her mercy, knows only torturous suffering and witless rage...
Struck again by pity, he draws his fingertips to Francel's nape, tracing soothing circles. ]
We should find an apothecary on the morrow, in any case.
[ Even a long night of discomfort is best prepared for, and agony seems nearly as likely. ]