It pulls strange: Another boy's steps, another man's shadow; someone else's drive. Cedric knows the taste of his own inquisition. What propels him forward now feels different.
A little more like hunger.
Darkness streams. The creature is too vast for the beetling arc it occupies, and the fear that spikes up through his lungs isn't Cedric's either. Awake, his eyes would find the joints of limbs and guess which way to twist; awake, he wouldn't wait to be caught.
(If we're caught, we’ll never know what's next.)
The shadow jerks, and Cedric steps over it, a smear on fine threshold. The fear isn't his, the hunger isn't, but Maker if they aren't: Sewn tight about some common thread. They deserve better, don't they? Better than tattered cloth and cold terror. They deserve to see,
Cedric stretches — not for knowledge, but a hand. Umber coats his fingers. When they look at the rings, he's searching for weakness, for the place where two things meet. Because it's a dream, they find it.
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A little more like hunger.
Darkness streams. The creature is too vast for the beetling arc it occupies, and the fear that spikes up through his lungs isn't Cedric's either. Awake, his eyes would find the joints of limbs and guess which way to twist; awake, he wouldn't wait to be caught.
(If we're caught, we’ll never know what's next.)
The shadow jerks, and Cedric steps over it, a smear on fine threshold. The fear isn't his, the hunger isn't, but Maker if they aren't: Sewn tight about some common thread. They deserve better, don't they? Better than tattered cloth and cold terror. They deserve to see,
Cedric stretches — not for knowledge, but a hand. Umber coats his fingers. When they look at the rings, he's searching for weakness, for the place where two things meet. Because it's a dream, they find it.
Because it's a dream, he reaches out to write.