[She was, but that had been his attraction to her: a little bird that begged for just a little more of that sweet laudanum, who had needed him to take care of her. Someone he could be good for.
His hands are still curled around the foot of the bed, and he leans in to watch her scars. He doesn't seem unsettled, either by the physical scars or her words. But he's surprised that she'd tell him these things in such an open manner, when they've only just met. He admires that, distantly, though he won't understand until later.
He considers telling her his own stories- the scars on his face, from one father figure; the deep spear wound in his shoulder, from the other. His leg is riddled with ugly gashes that healed over wrong. But the thought of doing so makes him feel small and vulnerable, and he can't go through with it.]
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His hands are still curled around the foot of the bed, and he leans in to watch her scars. He doesn't seem unsettled, either by the physical scars or her words. But he's surprised that she'd tell him these things in such an open manner, when they've only just met. He admires that, distantly, though he won't understand until later.
He considers telling her his own stories- the scars on his face, from one father figure; the deep spear wound in his shoulder, from the other. His leg is riddled with ugly gashes that healed over wrong. But the thought of doing so makes him feel small and vulnerable, and he can't go through with it.]
How does it feel to remember what happened?