*Gina*
I dip the cloth in the bowl, squeeze out the excess water, and gently drag the linen just below his collarbone from shoulder to shoulder, carefully avoiding the wound. “What were you doing out in the streets at such an ungodly hour of night, alone, a target for rogues ?”
He averts his gaze, turning his head toward the fire. The golden light dances over his features, in a macabre display of shifting shadows he almost seems to welcome hiding within. “Chasing a dream”.
Disappointment, sorrow, and the beginnings of defeat wove their way through his quietly spoken words. What sort of a dream would a man search for within these wretched streets ? I nearly laugh aloud at the absurdity of my question. My own dreams are anchored here, although there have been times of late when I have fou
