memory’s so treacherous
Finn has made quite the remarkable error in judgement. He has headed into the Hanged Man after a long day - longer than it has had any right to be, in fact - to sit in some quiet corner and write out his notes. The writing helps; it feels like the oil spill in his head is able to take shape once it’s on paper. And all things considered the tavern isn’t so busy - Finn is lucky and he doesn’t know it, that most of the sailors are on the sea this season. No crowds.
So with two fingers of whiskey in a glass and his own thoughts for company, he begins a task both meticulous and soothing. The rain is coming down hard against the window behind him, a steady and hypnotic drumbeat for him to work against. And it’s warm, too, and the pen between his fingers feels heavier than it ought to.
And here lies the error in judgement. He ought to have gone back to his room at the inn, rather than come here. His concentration is shot; he has been restless for days. And now? Now Finn is fast asleep at his little table, his whiskey untouched, his pen still in his hand.
So with two fingers of whiskey in a glass and his own thoughts for company, he begins a task both meticulous and soothing. The rain is coming down hard against the window behind him, a steady and hypnotic drumbeat for him to work against. And it’s warm, too, and the pen between his fingers feels heavier than it ought to.
And here lies the error in judgement. He ought to have gone back to his room at the inn, rather than come here. His concentration is shot; he has been restless for days. And now? Now Finn is fast asleep at his little table, his whiskey untouched, his pen still in his hand.
one moment you’re lost in a carnival of delights
the next, it leads you somewhere you don’t want to go
FINN
