Blackfeather Woods i'm so lost thinking our love was a lie

her question reaches miktrull's ears, drawing him from the greedy fingers of memory. of trauma; always on the cusp of tugging him into it's milky, shadowy depths.

ja, comes his response; a crooned, sound.

to admit it felt like some sort of cardinal sin.

but it always pains him in some way or another. by limitation of movement, or the phantom pain of the hungry, devouring flames.

but the healers had done all they could, he believed; at least for the outside. they'd been rather helpless for the internal injuries and had resolutely decided that lay strictly in the hands of fate.

it would either heal, or it wouldn't.

vocal chords had healed: eating had become easier with time, and breathing. but speaking, growling ... they still sounded like they came from a wounded animal; dealt with, but not necessarily easier.