( honestly, he liked it better when the sharp point of that spear was touching his throat. his skin's tough enough that it hadn't quite broken to bleed with the effort, but a bit more would've done it. instead, she pulls it back, and he almost wants to echo her: don't. put it back. finish it.

but he just... can't. can't say it. not to her. not to—can't say her name, either. can't even think it.

instead, he curls his fingers around the spear, close to the tip. where there used to be long fingers, pale skin, a murderer's brand, there's only claws, scaly talon-like skin, blackened and bent. still, there's something familiar about the particular movement of his hands, how each finger curls one by one until he's gripping it. and about the way his lips pull back in a wince, the miserably guilty way his eyes avert. the piteousness in his rough voice. (she never had patience for that crap, but she isn't she anymore, and he isn't he and nothing is real—) )

I told you: nobody, anymore. If you were looking for someone, I'm sorry to say you haven't found him. You shouldn't be here, you... I... there's nothing here but dreams and monsters. If I close my eyes, you'll disappear, won't you? So just—