the spyglass
I used to think that I was bold, I used to think love would be fun
Finn is at a feast.
This time, though, there are many seats at the table, and many seated, too. At the head in his rich velvet seat is the Spyglass as he was when Remi last saw him, soaked in blood, finishing the remnants of what looks like it was once a liver. To his right sits a young man with a pretty face and a head of rich curls, wrapped in blue silk. To his left, younger still, is a gaunt and stormy-eyed teen, stripped to the waist with a back lashed and raw and weeping crimson.
Further down the table we have a youth with soaking wet hair, a hungry expression and dirty clothes, though he does not reach for any of the food at the table. And at the opposite end a child sits, haunted and sad, his legs swinging where they don't quite reach the floor.
"We're still missing one," the present Finn murmurs to the remaining empty seat, glancing around for the man he knows will fill it.
This time, though, there are many seats at the table, and many seated, too. At the head in his rich velvet seat is the Spyglass as he was when Remi last saw him, soaked in blood, finishing the remnants of what looks like it was once a liver. To his right sits a young man with a pretty face and a head of rich curls, wrapped in blue silk. To his left, younger still, is a gaunt and stormy-eyed teen, stripped to the waist with a back lashed and raw and weeping crimson.
Further down the table we have a youth with soaking wet hair, a hungry expression and dirty clothes, though he does not reach for any of the food at the table. And at the opposite end a child sits, haunted and sad, his legs swinging where they don't quite reach the floor.
"We're still missing one," the present Finn murmurs to the remaining empty seat, glancing around for the man he knows will fill it.
now all my stories have been told; except for one
