devotedwretch
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Let it be a dream, Cinyras prayed. By the gods, let it be an awful, loathsome dream.
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God, what would Stede think?
It was an awful thought, one that came to Ed only in the deepest depths of his despair. (Which is to say at least once a day). Stede, with his summer linens and hair that shone like gold and soap that smelled of lavender. What would he think if he could see Ed now? Face unwashed, kohl-smeared and tear-stained. Hair tangled in knots. Reeking of drink and stale, anxious sweat. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a bath. For a cup of tea. For a single mouthful of marmalade.
It was pointless, of course, to wonder what Stede might have thought, due to the simple fact that Stede. Was. Gone. Not coming back. Left him. Left Ed sitting on that dock watching the sun rise and listening to the sound of his own heart breaking.
Pointless it may have been, but that didn’t stop Ed from dwelling on it. He had pictured Stede’s expression a thousand times, wondered how it would be. Would he look sorry? Guilty? Disgusted? Maybe he’d be relieved—to have gotten away before he’d had to witness the depths Ed could sink to.
You were always going to realize what I am.
Yeah. Ed dwelt on it.