failpost
The dark man was still and felt the words reverberating in the still air. His eyes did not break from the boy, so pinned by the power of his speech. There was fear in those eyes, but something more lurked in them. It was then, reading a soul that did not understand its own destiny, that Larkspur made his decision. “Git up,” he said calmly. It was as if someone else had come and left his body entirely. In a way, this was the truth. But it was also a lie. Larkspur did not understand the truth of the world. He was uneducated and knew a simpler truth, but it was his truth.
He watched the boy rise, however unsteadily. “I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he added, and that peculiar smile—a smile that could have been a grimace—broke across his face. His broad chest, marked by that white fur that could have been a bird, or could have been a skull, but never seemed to fully take shape because it was so much like a Rorschach painting. Maybe Misery had known that, when she had taken bleach to his skin. Maybe she had known his fur would grow out white in patches where it had been damaged. Slowly, though by no means cautiously, Larkspur asked: “How much do you really want t’know?”
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