[ Outside of the dreams, the magic of the world made their language the same... when it was spoken. But when he focused, he could write in his mother tongue still, and make the letters what they were meant to be on the flat of the strange metal. In streaks of blood from his fingers, some of the strokes half-vanished he made them so fast.
страдание
He hardly dared to breathe as he focused on it. On the meaning and the word and the magic, while he lipped the words of the terrible lullabye it belonged to, this old word for suffering of the heart as much as the body. Of crawling back into his cot in his dark room on the Sleipnir, so bruised there was no hope of finding a comfortable way to lay, blood still seeping through the gauze on his hands.
His hands wavered, didn't yet fall away, and he bent toward the sword, mouthing words he didn't dare speak. Zashchitit' yego, he prayed, and sealed the hope with a small gift of blood for the keen edge itself. His hands were so scarred that the effort was worth more than his skin. And his attention was so intense and intent; it crackled like lightning on the edges of a plain through the thin bond they shared.
He turned away when it was done, walking out from under the scant protection of overhanging branches, shielding his eyes with his hand as he looked up, scanned the sky for their quarry. It glinted past the thin columns of black smoke, higher now. He set his mouth stubbornly. ]
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страдание
He hardly dared to breathe as he focused on it. On the meaning and the word and the magic, while he lipped the words of the terrible lullabye it belonged to, this old word for suffering of the heart as much as the body. Of crawling back into his cot in his dark room on the Sleipnir, so bruised there was no hope of finding a comfortable way to lay, blood still seeping through the gauze on his hands.
His hands wavered, didn't yet fall away, and he bent toward the sword, mouthing words he didn't dare speak. Zashchitit' yego, he prayed, and sealed the hope with a small gift of blood for the keen edge itself. His hands were so scarred that the effort was worth more than his skin. And his attention was so intense and intent; it crackled like lightning on the edges of a plain through the thin bond they shared.
He turned away when it was done, walking out from under the scant protection of overhanging branches, shielding his eyes with his hand as he looked up, scanned the sky for their quarry. It glinted past the thin columns of black smoke, higher now. He set his mouth stubbornly. ]
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