Written for Three Sentence Ficathon 2025, for the prompt “any, any, "you keep your fucking words out of my dead loved ones' fucking mouths"”
A snippet of a confrontation in a small room in a lawless land.
Contains spoilers for the Nemesis ambition, but you probably already know that if you’re looking up things with Scathewick, eh?
“Your brother, was it? If he were here, what would he sa—”
“But he’s not here!” Dot cuts him off, slamming a palm down on the rickety table between them. “You saw to that, didn’t you?!”
Scathewick simply wearily smiles, unfolding his hands and spreading them before him like some twisted old master’s painting of the Holy Son, as though he would take on all her outrage as a kindness to her. It made her stomach churn.
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