[ Oh, God. Carver rocks on his heels, heart pounding in his throat. This is a sin. This is an awful goddamn sin, worse than what he did on the killing grounds in Meridian. He clutches at his pendant, praying for guidance, for some sort of clarity, but it doesn't come. There's just a bit of iron in his hand, hammered and forced into a new shape by a dead man, a brother yet unburied. And there are ghosts in the corners again, massing in their uniforms, and -
And Harold keeps talking, sharper this time. Saying this shit like it doesn't come with consequences. Like the commander won't burn them all for this.
Carver flinches. ]
Don't say that, [ he hisses, rocking again, fighting the urge to pace or maybe go and bash his head into the wall. ] Don't say that. He made me.
no subject
And Harold keeps talking, sharper this time. Saying this shit like it doesn't come with consequences. Like the commander won't burn them all for this.
Carver flinches. ]
Don't say that, [ he hisses, rocking again, fighting the urge to pace or maybe go and bash his head into the wall. ] Don't say that. He made me.