drinking wine made for disaster
#8
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Without the mask, and without the walls, Gabriel would have collapsed. He had broken once before, in a church over the mountain, and stabbed himself through the hand to prove something. What this had been, exactly, he no longer remembered. There was no martyrdom in his actions, only a self loathing that had never fully left his heart. This might have been because of those dark smudges on his soul, some which now might have been placed there by Haku—his shadow—in the two years they had known one another. Eventually Gabriel would cut those out. On that day, the blue eyed monster would perish.

An obvious statement, and a quiet gesture of sympathy. Gabriel did not care for this. He needed no sympathy. “You had nothing to do with it,” he coughed, rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It tasted like ash and smoke, and he hated it. “How’s the Valley? I haven’t heard much from your pack since Iskata died.” A slip, though he did not realize it. He had forgotten in these troubling times that one of his crimes had not made it to the surface. As far as he was concerned, she was buried under the ocean’s waves.



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