Jackern resisted the urge to scrawl his signature in florid loops across the agreement. He guessed he’d always recognize and deny each moment his old self surfaced.
Condorre cleared his throat.
Jackern constrained his name to the space allotted him among the other—credentialed— generals. When Kate strode up he placed the pen in her hand. He made a point to brush the skin of her palm with his fingers but not look to her eyes. Maybe he could extend something from what had happened between them at Lan Caloon. Not today though, not yet anyway.
Sunlight streamed through the oculus like honey poured from a jar. Condorre embraced him and patted his back once he descended the few steps and joined him in the circled group. It was a good day inside and out.
“Your father would have been proud, Jack.”
“My father would have set fire to my house and raped my wives had I any.”
170 words on day 598
[place weekly bitch about not writing here]
The [something interesting] Choir stared after the body on the floor—willing it to take a breath. Jackern ignored them all—the body and the Choir. He grasped two daggers, one in each hand, butt to butt, one up one down in a neutral but ready stance. He let the inevitable victory replace the air in his lungs with each breath. He felt it’s warmth suffuse his blood and then the cells of his body. This moment, this ephemeral sensation, was the only real moment he allowed himself. Maybe slipping into character was the only other moment he allowed.
Jackern made his stance sloppy and forced himself to disdain everyone in the room. He glanced to eyes of the body at his feet long to see the pupils contract before the saving breath then scornfully sucked his teeth loud enough to draw the Choir’s attention. Jackern smiled like a fox exiting a pheasant coop and spread his arms as if to hug the entire gathering.
Word count: 174