[ An image lingers in John's mind, a vision traded back: a sudden burst of terrible light from the sky, and nothing more.
He presses a hand to his eyes, trying to blink the vision away. Still growling his fury at this— this thing throwing Arthur's slit throat at him, haunting him with the image of Arthur's dead eyes. A reminder that he is a trespasser in this skin.
When his hand falls from his eyes, the shame there is bitter and raw. Then he gets a hold of himself, sets his jaw, and glares at his new pair of rusted pruning shears. ]
It's just fucking with us.
[ He turns away from the Husks, and tries to make it look like the impatient stride of a man who has claimed a trophy. Not like a hurried retreat. ]
no subject
He presses a hand to his eyes, trying to blink the vision away. Still growling his fury at this— this thing throwing Arthur's slit throat at him, haunting him with the image of Arthur's dead eyes. A reminder that he is a trespasser in this skin.
When his hand falls from his eyes, the shame there is bitter and raw. Then he gets a hold of himself, sets his jaw, and glares at his new pair of rusted pruning shears. ]
It's just fucking with us.
[ He turns away from the Husks, and tries to make it look like the impatient stride of a man who has claimed a trophy. Not like a hurried retreat. ]
So I did. Now we can move on.