i fell in love with a war
The cobblestones are uneven under his feet, but Casimir glides over them with all the silence grace of a spider scuttling silently up a wall. He still can't quite accept the reality of the situation, even with the wind burning the tips of his cheeks and sending his carefully-combed curls whirling above his head, and as his feet drag over the winding street, he half expects to disappear in a gust of the wind and reappear back behind the bar. His afterlife in King's End, his extended post-death hallucination had blurred together in a slurry of near-identical scenes, and if this day were to end in an abrupt shifting back to normalcy, he would have the final piece of evidence he needed to confirm he was, in fact, a ghost. But as the signpost rose into view over the horizon as they neared and the wind continued to slam against him, battering his solid frame, Casimir gave up on trying to convince himself this wasn't real.
Thorn had been blessedly silent for a few peaceful moments, and Casimir was about to check if the man beside him had suddenly come down with a fever leading to his uncharacteristic placidity (or perhaps the shock of finally succeeding in drawing Casimir out of the House of Midnight had finally shut him up). Of course, placid silence of the night couldn't last with Thorn around, and Casimir's eyes narrowed into sharp slits of irritation at his inane question. Though his face stays the same slate-thick mask, he knew Thorn would catch the resigned endurance of his shenanigans. Buried deep in his eyes, so deep he could barely catch it, much less Thorn, a hint of amusement glimmered. Did he look like a spaghetti kind of guy?
He lengthened his step, already long and lean, in an attempt to make Thorn keep up. The challenge was set; the courtier had dragged him out of the bar. Now, the matter was seeing if he could wring a word of out Casimir in whatever adventures he dragged him on that night.
Thorn had been blessedly silent for a few peaceful moments, and Casimir was about to check if the man beside him had suddenly come down with a fever leading to his uncharacteristic placidity (or perhaps the shock of finally succeeding in drawing Casimir out of the House of Midnight had finally shut him up). Of course, placid silence of the night couldn't last with Thorn around, and Casimir's eyes narrowed into sharp slits of irritation at his inane question. Though his face stays the same slate-thick mask, he knew Thorn would catch the resigned endurance of his shenanigans. Buried deep in his eyes, so deep he could barely catch it, much less Thorn, a hint of amusement glimmered. Did he look like a spaghetti kind of guy?
He lengthened his step, already long and lean, in an attempt to make Thorn keep up. The challenge was set; the courtier had dragged him out of the bar. Now, the matter was seeing if he could wring a word of out Casimir in whatever adventures he dragged him on that night.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
