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spilled milk tears;
[By the time the sun starts to slide back from its perch high in the sky, Inigo has rolled through the entire camp. He'd stopped to chat, avoided a request or five from certain parties who want to see him practice, and that should be that. There's his equipment to line up in his tent, an unused vulnerary to throw back in their stock.
Inigo walks past his tent instead, strong jaw firmly shut. He takes deep breath after deep breath through his nose, forces his pace to remain steady. If Inigo is like any thing in camp, it is a glass stave. Pretty and sturdy looking on the outside, meant to be shown off around the crook of your arm. And, why?
When the slightest chink ripples through, it splinters and cracks.
No wants a mess, to pick up the pieces of things that weren't strong enough for even pretending. Pretending is getting harder lately, the presence of his friends, his family, the comfort they bring in him washed out more often by his highlighted insecurities.
Inigo remembers his failures, his mistakes, and worst of all his fears.
He reaches the edge of camp, looks back over his shoulder and marvels at how large it looks even from this distance.
There is no game face, only his lips trembling lightly. Inigo feels small, small like the stars in the sky, and it terrifies him, that he could be swallowed whole so easily. The toe of his boots hits a stone, skidding it a foot away. Another two steps and he kicks it, hard, the bark scratching off the tree after its impact.]
Damn it all.
Damn me.
Inigo walks past his tent instead, strong jaw firmly shut. He takes deep breath after deep breath through his nose, forces his pace to remain steady. If Inigo is like any thing in camp, it is a glass stave. Pretty and sturdy looking on the outside, meant to be shown off around the crook of your arm. And, why?
When the slightest chink ripples through, it splinters and cracks.
No wants a mess, to pick up the pieces of things that weren't strong enough for even pretending. Pretending is getting harder lately, the presence of his friends, his family, the comfort they bring in him washed out more often by his highlighted insecurities.
Inigo remembers his failures, his mistakes, and worst of all his fears.
He reaches the edge of camp, looks back over his shoulder and marvels at how large it looks even from this distance.
There is no game face, only his lips trembling lightly. Inigo feels small, small like the stars in the sky, and it terrifies him, that he could be swallowed whole so easily. The toe of his boots hits a stone, skidding it a foot away. Another two steps and he kicks it, hard, the bark scratching off the tree after its impact.]
Damn it all.
Damn me.