[the moment the memory hits viktor finds it shockingly easy to follow the natural flow, to make only idle note of the soft pain in his stomach (not his stomach) and the odd quality of the thing almost like paper under his fingertips. he knows it the way he understands an abstract concept, the way this unfamiliar corner is a place he feels he's built with his own hands.
(in the tangle he can grasp at ortus as an entity, and it makes it easier to feel it all yet exist as viktor, who watches, who greedily reads the same words and feels a such an odd and aching understanding of what it is to be a child hiding away, untouched and unnoticed.)
heretics, that is new to viktor's understanding of the world of necromancers, now a space filled in with the dramatic tales that reek of both excitement and propaganda. ortus' mother is another filled in black, deafening in she said not to come back yet and the churning bile that came with it. the delicate constitution, he's heard others say in the life he calls his own.
when he blinks out of it, out of the end of the tale and the small space, his hand is over his stomach. it takes a moment to recenter his thoughts to an order more suitable for where he is, for who he is, glancing to ortus in surprise.
that look back-] A memory? I saw- gods above, that is what you used as paper? [is what he manages, voice feeling a touch odd in his ears before he straightens, tries,] I apologize, Ortus, I did have some of an apple hours before but I did not think- they have this effect, with memories, but I had assumed only in the immediate.
no subject
(in the tangle he can grasp at ortus as an entity, and it makes it easier to feel it all yet exist as viktor, who watches, who greedily reads the same words and feels a such an odd and aching understanding of what it is to be a child hiding away, untouched and unnoticed.)
heretics, that is new to viktor's understanding of the world of necromancers, now a space filled in with the dramatic tales that reek of both excitement and propaganda. ortus' mother is another filled in black, deafening in she said not to come back yet and the churning bile that came with it. the delicate constitution, he's heard others say in the life he calls his own.
when he blinks out of it, out of the end of the tale and the small space, his hand is over his stomach. it takes a moment to recenter his thoughts to an order more suitable for where he is, for who he is, glancing to ortus in surprise.
that look back-] A memory? I saw- gods above, that is what you used as paper? [is what he manages, voice feeling a touch odd in his ears before he straightens, tries,] I apologize, Ortus, I did have some of an apple hours before but I did not think- they have this effect, with memories, but I had assumed only in the immediate.