He glances up at the wooden planks over his head, lets his eyes trace out the old, old wood from the newer old wood. To the eye, the difference is not great, though he can sense the lack of harmony that the best carpentry cannot fully disguise. Smoothing the sundered patterns would be easy enough. Like melding into the flowing day-to-day existence of Aurore. Like forgetting dark-haired girls with golden eyes, or fire-haired women with green eyes, or demigods cast back into the sea. “Except—” The words break as he stands, stretches. “Except what, Martel?” he snaps at himself. Except you’re a lousy forgetter. Shaking his head, he picks up the cup from the low table and gulps down the last of the yasmin tea. He wears only a pair of black shorts, and is barefoot and clean-shaven. His heavy steps thud as he crosses the porch. The cup floats from his hands and stacks itself in the cleaner. He continues on into his sleeping quarters. In the wardrobe are three dusty pale yellow tunics, with matching trousers, kept to remind him, and three sets of matching black tunics and their trousers.
What do You think about Haze And The Hammer Of Darkness?
