He responds with a sigh, and turns his gaze aside, as though in concession to this—whatever this is. Assertion of autonomy. Rebellious compulsion. This ongoing argument Ralston is always making against everything. He has been more than patient with it—permissive, even. Polluting his bed, though, with the shoes he wears outside? While gently wringing his hands, the Darkling takes a second to imagine the horror witnessing such a thing might provoke among his Grisha—Ivan would be enraged by it, bless him—and finds it faintly comforting.
And then he flicks his wrist and lifts the shadow beneath Ralston's chair to knock it on its back, and doesn't even watch it happen. Good-bye.
no subject
He responds with a sigh, and turns his gaze aside, as though in concession to this—whatever this is. Assertion of autonomy. Rebellious compulsion. This ongoing argument Ralston is always making against everything. He has been more than patient with it—permissive, even. Polluting his bed, though, with the shoes he wears outside? While gently wringing his hands, the Darkling takes a second to imagine the horror witnessing such a thing might provoke among his Grisha—Ivan would be enraged by it, bless him—and finds it faintly comforting.
And then he flicks his wrist and lifts the shadow beneath Ralston's chair to knock it on its back, and doesn't even watch it happen. Good-bye.