And finally disengaging, bare feet scuffing on the wooden floor, and a starting wipe down with the edge of the bedsheet before Marcus makes for where water has been set aside by the window. Indulges in some magic, a turn of his hand evoking a pattern of red-lit runes across the metal outside of the pitcher to warm the contents within, giving it a chance to properly rid them both of clinging oil. Something to it like making up for the rudeness of not letting Flint strip down properly, though he had, semi-consciously, minded his clothes.
After this, Marcus will return to the Gallows directly, and go to that small room allotted to him. There will be a solid stretch of hours in which he can sleep, and do so deeply, and then the sun will sink and he will take his meal in dining hall, and then walk the ramparts until the sun starts to suggest some colour to the night sky. And on and on.
It's all very routine, and has been since they began fucking around. Even additional aches and more marks than usual don't throw anything out of order, particularly. But there are differences. Intentions. He will, next time he ascends the stairs, do it with a freshly purchased bottle of cheap whiskey. He will have finished that book and choose another, if there's some lazy spare minutes the next morning. He will make some effort to disguise any manipulating the guard rota to selfish ends.
And, when they both emerge from this let house, Marcus will reach across the short space between them, touching Flint's wrist in friendly grasp, before they split off in different directions.
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And finally disengaging, bare feet scuffing on the wooden floor, and a starting wipe down with the edge of the bedsheet before Marcus makes for where water has been set aside by the window. Indulges in some magic, a turn of his hand evoking a pattern of red-lit runes across the metal outside of the pitcher to warm the contents within, giving it a chance to properly rid them both of clinging oil. Something to it like making up for the rudeness of not letting Flint strip down properly, though he had, semi-consciously, minded his clothes.
After this, Marcus will return to the Gallows directly, and go to that small room allotted to him. There will be a solid stretch of hours in which he can sleep, and do so deeply, and then the sun will sink and he will take his meal in dining hall, and then walk the ramparts until the sun starts to suggest some colour to the night sky. And on and on.
It's all very routine, and has been since they began fucking around. Even additional aches and more marks than usual don't throw anything out of order, particularly. But there are differences. Intentions. He will, next time he ascends the stairs, do it with a freshly purchased bottle of cheap whiskey. He will have finished that book and choose another, if there's some lazy spare minutes the next morning. He will make some effort to disguise any manipulating the guard rota to selfish ends.
And, when they both emerge from this let house, Marcus will reach across the short space between them, touching Flint's wrist in friendly grasp, before they split off in different directions.