[ The first day he'd found the dining hall and piled food into the front of his tunic, then—receiving a few strange looks along the way—made for the library. He stayed until it closed, maybe after, devouring stories and picking at food slowly going cold. She might have seen him—one book open to a map, another to a historical account, and a third at his elbow breathlessly recounting a legend of the same events.
Or she might be seeing him for the first time today, a man in a slightly stained and rumpled tunic. Bright eyes with dark circles under them like smears of ink. He steps around her pillars of books, feeling bad for reading over her shoulder but not bad enough to stop. ]
Have you found anything about— [ He plucks the cloth at his shoulder, embroidered with the symbol for Death. His expression falters—not dismayed but momentarily lost—as he realizes how she might take that. His voice dips. ] All of them, I mean.
II
Or she might be seeing him for the first time today, a man in a slightly stained and rumpled tunic. Bright eyes with dark circles under them like smears of ink. He steps around her pillars of books, feeling bad for reading over her shoulder but not bad enough to stop. ]
Have you found anything about— [ He plucks the cloth at his shoulder, embroidered with the symbol for Death. His expression falters—not dismayed but momentarily lost—as he realizes how she might take that. His voice dips. ] All of them, I mean.