Yes, he has considered that they might be better off simply cutting her hand off at the wrist. Aleksei could kill their chaperones and the pair of them could disappear. They've disappeared before.
But nothing about this is the way it was before. (It had been his mistake. His error. He does not say this aloud but he carries it in his chest and feels the weight of it with every breath he draws.) They have never been so well and truly fucked before. He sees the dull gleam of her palm catch the light of their meager fire, counterpoint to the clink of her carefully hidden manacles and curses again the circumstances that landed them here.
On the road to Kirkwall, conscripted into a war that seems endless and foolish to Aleksei. It is bigger than them. They were supposed to have slid beneath it's notice, reaping a tidy profit and carrying on with their business. Neither of them were ever supposed to be involved. Yevdokiya was not meant to be involved. He has heard stories in taverns of what people with shards are meant to do. It's nothing he wants Doki to do.
But he does not see a way out that doesn't result in them being hunted down one way or another. How do they work under those conditions?
"Duska," he begins, then sighs. He would like it to be so easy.
He taps the back of her afflicted hand with his spoon, tries to make his tone light. Aleksei is holding tightly to his anger. It keeps the guilt and regret at bay. (What would their parents say? He does not think about that very often, but it seems more grievous to have failed his sister as opposed to any of their other many sins.)
"Where would we find a hand that matches?" He asks, as if he has not thought very seriously about making these guards a sacrifice to the Maker and running with Yevdokiya anyway, shard or not. Conveniently, there are two guards, and yet—
"I have heard there is business to be had in Kirkwall," he begins, changing the subject. "Perhaps we take advantage of that, and then we leave when we have found a way to get that out of your hand."
Someone must know. Nevarran necromancers seem like a risky bet at best.
no subject
But nothing about this is the way it was before. (It had been his mistake. His error. He does not say this aloud but he carries it in his chest and feels the weight of it with every breath he draws.) They have never been so well and truly fucked before. He sees the dull gleam of her palm catch the light of their meager fire, counterpoint to the clink of her carefully hidden manacles and curses again the circumstances that landed them here.
On the road to Kirkwall, conscripted into a war that seems endless and foolish to Aleksei. It is bigger than them. They were supposed to have slid beneath it's notice, reaping a tidy profit and carrying on with their business. Neither of them were ever supposed to be involved. Yevdokiya was not meant to be involved. He has heard stories in taverns of what people with shards are meant to do. It's nothing he wants Doki to do.
But he does not see a way out that doesn't result in them being hunted down one way or another. How do they work under those conditions?
"Duska," he begins, then sighs. He would like it to be so easy.
He taps the back of her afflicted hand with his spoon, tries to make his tone light. Aleksei is holding tightly to his anger. It keeps the guilt and regret at bay. (What would their parents say? He does not think about that very often, but it seems more grievous to have failed his sister as opposed to any of their other many sins.)
"Where would we find a hand that matches?" He asks, as if he has not thought very seriously about making these guards a sacrifice to the Maker and running with Yevdokiya anyway, shard or not. Conveniently, there are two guards, and yet—
"I have heard there is business to be had in Kirkwall," he begins, changing the subject. "Perhaps we take advantage of that, and then we leave when we have found a way to get that out of your hand."
Someone must know. Nevarran necromancers seem like a risky bet at best.