Despite all my rage.

Tic slowly shifted his glance from where he'd planted it, passing his eyes over the parchment, the ink bottle, and the feathered quill. His stare came to rest at the edge of the smooth, wooden desk, as his mind began to race. He knew what was expected of him; what could be done if he resisted. He knew how serious a position he was in; how suddenly significant he was, to both Larkin and The Sink. It bothered him, knowing this. The longing to get away, to have never been involved, was now sharper than ever -- he stifled it, ignoring the threatening sting in his eyes.

But his conscience gave a lurch. Turning his head subtly, he began to think, remember. The people he had gotten close to, the family he had fought for, the father whose vengeance was to be paid; all betrayed. All the promises he had made to himself -- to fight against the oppression sitting before him -- would be broken. With just the littlest of his movement or words, everything he had known could be destroyed, captured, or enslaved. Yes, he knew exactly what Larkin wanted. And he couldn't let it happen.

There was nothing stopping him from doing it. No captivating gaze upon him, no threat upon anyone's life but his own -- nothing but the presence of power and control. He wouldn't give in to this enemy's hospitality either -- there was no comfort to be found there, no, nothing to convince him that treason would be perfectly fine. Resistance was growing in him quickly; an almost angry feeling. No, he thought, I won't let it happen.

Raising himself slightly, head still hung low, he spoke. A small tone of determination was in his voice, but a sudden fear kept it soft as he realized who he was speaking to.

"No," he breathed.