Ink and the aftermath

Ink found himself surrounded with concern. Questions, questions spewing forth like so much vomit from all directions, pelting into him while his throat burned. He'd gone on stage in a moment of weakness. Thinking maybe he'd be able to finish a song again. Maybe this time it would work. Of course it was a disaster, it always was going to be a distaster. This was a part of his life he needed to leave in the past where it had died. He should have known better than to try and reel up old dreams from the murky depths.

The medication seeping down his throat from his mask was starting to soothe, but he knew he'd not be able to speak a word until morning. His throat was becoming a fresh scab and he'd not rip it off to placate their worry. So he shushed them, held up a thumb, and made the slicing motion over his throat that was a universal sign for 'quiet'.

He saw the look in Braga's eyes. He'd intended to have a conversation with her over her performance in the cave. There were certainly lessons to be learned there for her. But now, that would have to wait. A lengthy conversation would be out of the question until they were off the island. He could also tell there was a deeper level of affection between William and Davenport. Possibly of a carnal level. It did not matter to him as much as he had expected. Perhaps he was becoming more sentimental after all.

He pushed past them, ignoring their further talk. Such intimate relations were no longer something he could surrender himself to. They might dislike him for it, but as long as it did not turn to resentment he was fine with that, too. Besides, it was time he returned to the only one his heart was still open to, and the reason for his larynx being the fragile ruin it was. He rounded the corner, melded with the shadows, and set off to see to Void.

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