The Only Ink
“You don’t know me.” Quintus stood up. “You question my worth, and you question my devotion — and when I challenge you, you fuss like a barnyard rooster.”
The duelist stalked a few paces away in a cold fury.
“Fine. If words are what you want. If words will make you believe that I am ‘worthy’ of your trust, of your grand ideals — then hear me. I will die for Simon Garamonde. I will kill for Simon Garamonde. This entire world could burn and go gray with ash, and if he could walk free and unspoiled I would consider it a worthy trade. Every moment that his heart is under a devil’s hand, mine breaks anew. There.”
Quintus face looked down on the sleeping gnome with utter contempt.
“Is that acceptable, librarian? Now that I have used your precious words, is my pain – my love more real? Can you feel it now? Are my words true — am I worthy? Words are air, my heart is full of blood and steel. Those are the only ink worth writing with. Now speak.”