The journey from Torchline to King's End was not a long one, but Finch's colorful imaginings of the various ways Jack may splay and dissect his innards certainly elongated the trip. He had stayed on the deck throughout the entire voyage, watching as the sky turned from a vibrant, cloud-speckled blue into the color of an old bruise, the angry bite of the cold snapping eagerly at his skin. He had breathed the thin air in and out, pulling it into his lungs like water rushing aboard a sinking ship and held it there, trying to memorize the feeling of it, trying to capture the blood pumping under his skin. His hands are empty, lithe thief's fingers that had coaxed and wheedled so many treasures from such precarious maws nothing but cuts and calluses. He hopes Jack will let him keep all of his fingers. He's rather fond of them.
The ground of King's End is half-frozen beneath his feet and Finch doesn't think he will ever get used to the sensation of moving silently through streets that fight back against the inertia of a moving body. The cold pulls against the scar on his face as he grimaces against the biting wind; though he's completed this journey more than a few times in his indenture to Jack, he can't help but feel like the wind takes pleasure in slashing into him each and every time. It's almost a relief to get to the Ark, and below the decks, Finch is practically frog-marched towards wherever Jack is presumably stationed in this maze of wood. The air cloys heavily with the smell of cedar and salt, the scent of the sea clinging to the ship's weathered planks and it encloses Finch in its heaviness, a casket closing its lid amongst damp, packed earth. As always, he flirts with Murphy, his smooth, honeyed words insinuating how else he could manhandle Finch, and, as always, his advances go absolutely nowhere. It's part of the routine, the waltz of compliance and loyalty while still straining at his leash just enough to nip at the hands just out of reach. It's a rather compelling distraction, too, from the news of his imminent death.
Jack's maproom is stuffed to the brim with papers and the man himself lounges, a cigarette in hand, and Finch is once again taken aback by the easy confidence of the man that holds his life in his hands. It's to be expected from Jack Barclay, but the sheer command he holds in a room, even one as empty and cluttered as this one, is nearly enough to force Finch to his knees in fear and admiration. Almost. He prepares himself as he walks into the room, forcing his body into an image of easy confidence and competence. His hands hand loose at his side, carefully in-sight so no one accuses him of sticking his fingers where they don't belong. Under his skin, fear and adrenaline thrum, threaded together in an inexorable waltz; today is not the day to push his boundaries with the man, and he hopes his tongue has the common sense to behave itself. As if proving to himself he isn't an utter disrespectful, suicidal moron that bites the hand that feed for fun, he waits for Jack to acknowledge him before speaking. The emptiness of his hands weigh heavy on them, nearly buzzing from the pressure of the lack.
The ground of King's End is half-frozen beneath his feet and Finch doesn't think he will ever get used to the sensation of moving silently through streets that fight back against the inertia of a moving body. The cold pulls against the scar on his face as he grimaces against the biting wind; though he's completed this journey more than a few times in his indenture to Jack, he can't help but feel like the wind takes pleasure in slashing into him each and every time. It's almost a relief to get to the Ark, and below the decks, Finch is practically frog-marched towards wherever Jack is presumably stationed in this maze of wood. The air cloys heavily with the smell of cedar and salt, the scent of the sea clinging to the ship's weathered planks and it encloses Finch in its heaviness, a casket closing its lid amongst damp, packed earth. As always, he flirts with Murphy, his smooth, honeyed words insinuating how else he could manhandle Finch, and, as always, his advances go absolutely nowhere. It's part of the routine, the waltz of compliance and loyalty while still straining at his leash just enough to nip at the hands just out of reach. It's a rather compelling distraction, too, from the news of his imminent death.
Jack's maproom is stuffed to the brim with papers and the man himself lounges, a cigarette in hand, and Finch is once again taken aback by the easy confidence of the man that holds his life in his hands. It's to be expected from Jack Barclay, but the sheer command he holds in a room, even one as empty and cluttered as this one, is nearly enough to force Finch to his knees in fear and admiration. Almost. He prepares himself as he walks into the room, forcing his body into an image of easy confidence and competence. His hands hand loose at his side, carefully in-sight so no one accuses him of sticking his fingers where they don't belong. Under his skin, fear and adrenaline thrum, threaded together in an inexorable waltz; today is not the day to push his boundaries with the man, and he hopes his tongue has the common sense to behave itself. As if proving to himself he isn't an utter disrespectful, suicidal moron that bites the hand that feed for fun, he waits for Jack to acknowledge him before speaking. The emptiness of his hands weigh heavy on them, nearly buzzing from the pressure of the lack.
