05-12-2020, 02:49 PM
It was for the best. Relief and regret curled behind his ribs. He rubbed a hand across his chest.
But still he thought blurrily of Declan in their hotel suite, tied to the family his travels left behind. Of the small child he called in the evenings while Sören made himself scarce. He had not even delivered the news personally afterwards, not wishing to be the pillar upon which Declan’s wife shed her grief. Financial compensation had been made. Declan’s own name credited discovery of the tomb. In such a memorial he would live forever.
Smoke curled from his mouth as he closed his eyes. The heat of his emotions made him angry, but moreseo the question of them, stirred by that damn dream. The shard he had stolen from the altar had been worth it. Wisdom demanded sacrifice, and this was but one more to burden. He would bleed every last drop of his own blood if he had to; make those slashes down his wrists and split open the veins himself. “Hon är inte min,” he murmured. But perhaps he would make his own assurances before the flight to Estonia.
His single eye glanced up at the intrusion, taking a moment to find the face. He doubted the veracity of the apology greatly given the drinker’s solitary nature at his own table, and usually it would receive little more than derision; if he’d usually choose to answer at all. He did not care what brought the other man out to nurse his own sorrows, or wished to find solace in another’s misery. It bred contempt, not company. Though then again, it beat the death rattle of his own thoughts, which were likely to see him err towards foolishness if he could not quell them quickly enough with the alcohol. After an unfocused moment he raised his glass in toast.
“Perhaps you are an ass,” he said. “Seems likely to be the case for me.”
But still he thought blurrily of Declan in their hotel suite, tied to the family his travels left behind. Of the small child he called in the evenings while Sören made himself scarce. He had not even delivered the news personally afterwards, not wishing to be the pillar upon which Declan’s wife shed her grief. Financial compensation had been made. Declan’s own name credited discovery of the tomb. In such a memorial he would live forever.
Smoke curled from his mouth as he closed his eyes. The heat of his emotions made him angry, but moreseo the question of them, stirred by that damn dream. The shard he had stolen from the altar had been worth it. Wisdom demanded sacrifice, and this was but one more to burden. He would bleed every last drop of his own blood if he had to; make those slashes down his wrists and split open the veins himself. “Hon är inte min,” he murmured. But perhaps he would make his own assurances before the flight to Estonia.
His single eye glanced up at the intrusion, taking a moment to find the face. He doubted the veracity of the apology greatly given the drinker’s solitary nature at his own table, and usually it would receive little more than derision; if he’d usually choose to answer at all. He did not care what brought the other man out to nurse his own sorrows, or wished to find solace in another’s misery. It bred contempt, not company. Though then again, it beat the death rattle of his own thoughts, which were likely to see him err towards foolishness if he could not quell them quickly enough with the alcohol. After an unfocused moment he raised his glass in toast.
“Perhaps you are an ass,” he said. “Seems likely to be the case for me.”
![[Image: odinraven.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/odinraven.png)