[P] fragile as a flower

[Sarkan]

Sarkan The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.   The king’s eyes burned on him. Sarkan ignored the sear of them, unruffled (if he’d suspected, if word had gotten out - and even after everything it still didn’t seem to have - he wouldn’t have even made it this far, pretending. It wasn’t like he was an easy man to miss), cool as the early-spring breeze. Only his heart tightens, a fist not yet white-knuckled. “Of course.” He didn’t smile until the other man did, and only shuffled back a step as the paint tracked his snare. “If nothing else, it’s one less poor critter.” The he didn’t bother him; it was only natural. What female would do this? (He could think of just one). He wasn’t worried yet. Only aware. That’s what he told himself, but he didn’t like the way the stallion’s eyes settled on his knife. Overhead the dead leaves still clinging to their branches trembled together like a sigh or a rattle of bones. Sarkan chuckled. “'Course it does,” he said. “It is. Family heirloom. I’d bore you to pieces, telling you all the things it’s been used for. Must’ve carved a dozen pipes with it, first off.” He told himself his laugh did not sound hollow. But this was a king he was not-quite-lying to. If the Percheron had had hands, the palms would be sweaty. @Ipomoea