Jonathan was much the happier, being mourned by one king and loved by two, and do not the loves and griefs of kings exceed those of other men?
Or, capture and death.
In the wake of Qingming’s revelation, the night bleeds out into a sombre quiet.
They were nearly at the end of this bout of fucking, when Sergei gave that damned scarf still looping over his shoulders a playful jerk and whispered in his ear if he would mind if he choked him a little?
On the one night of their journey that suspends itself in the in-between, not yet Hetao but no longer home, Wang Zhi joins him for dinner.
The crew of the Volunteer take pains to revive their surgeon after his plunge.
Crozier experiences some uncharitable thoughts in light of one particular shortcoming.
He is not in his body. He is not of his body at all.
"You would not hurt me," is what he says, careful, caged in. "You could never hurt me."
This, they have argued to a stalemate of irreconcilable disagreement; could so continue to press in unwinnability until the Heavens broke open overhead and the mountains crashed down astride them. But Sui Zhou serves to live as much as a man as he does a blade, and in that he is long intimated with the lay of blame for a tool in the wield of a hand.
Goodsir takes stock of his practicals.
Paul and Julian spend the morning together.