memory’s so treacherous
”I wouldn’t entertain that idea too much - the quarantine, I mean,” Finn advises her, finishing buttoning up his shirt and sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, eyebrows raised to wait for her to come to the same conclusion. If the Outlanders have weird diseases or viruses, it’s likely that the Order could bring them back too. And he doesn’t want to be the person to tell the Eye that he’s under lock and key for any length of time.
Her volunteering of such personal information always comes as a surprise to Finn. A slave to his own mind, the past few weeks in Torchline - with Remi, most notably - have loosened his tongue considerably. He’s given away parts of himself that would never have left the cage behind his teeth under normal circumstances. And now that he’s back here, in the clean and clinical doctor’s office in Stormbreak, the guard comes back down. ”I am sorry to hear that,” he offers.
Closing her eyes dutifully at the question about the scents of the place, Finn casts his mind back to mornings on the docks, to sunsets in the forest. ”Torchline smells like salt and sunshine,” he explains in a low voice, his tone almost dreamlike. ”Like fresh dill and lemongrass... or hot ground, after it’s been raining. And the Greatwood...” He sighs, shaking his head. ”Moss and berries and wet grass. It smells like sweet mud. It smells the way you imagine pulling on a warm sweater would smell.”
Her volunteering of such personal information always comes as a surprise to Finn. A slave to his own mind, the past few weeks in Torchline - with Remi, most notably - have loosened his tongue considerably. He’s given away parts of himself that would never have left the cage behind his teeth under normal circumstances. And now that he’s back here, in the clean and clinical doctor’s office in Stormbreak, the guard comes back down. ”I am sorry to hear that,” he offers.
Closing her eyes dutifully at the question about the scents of the place, Finn casts his mind back to mornings on the docks, to sunsets in the forest. ”Torchline smells like salt and sunshine,” he explains in a low voice, his tone almost dreamlike. ”Like fresh dill and lemongrass... or hot ground, after it’s been raining. And the Greatwood...” He sighs, shaking his head. ”Moss and berries and wet grass. It smells like sweet mud. It smells the way you imagine pulling on a warm sweater would smell.”
one moment you’re lost in a carnival of delights
the next, it leads you somewhere you don’t want to go
FINN
