He’d saved lives as the Reaper long before the Sword; the actions and motions had simply been embedded in acrimony, in enmity, and antipathy, stretching out blades and limbs to incapacitate, mar, and ruin the adversaries daring to come after children, after his citizens. Perhaps that left them less meaningful, as he stood along summits or borders, bleeding from freshly-honed lacerations, daring to defend and defend and defend until he could no longer. Perhaps it was taken for granted, assumed he would for eternities, a breathing oeuvre to bloodshed and condemnation, scouring and scarring the earth in pursuit of vengeance, justice, and insurrection. It had been duty, shelter, a sanctum, a sanctuary, he’d carved out of the earth, out of the mountains for them. Not once had he asked for anything in return.
The same could be said for this world. Though it wasn’t entirely his to guard or defend, the position he’d filled meant protection, defense, and expressions of wisdom via weapons, techniques, and tactics, no matter what was damned and doomed to come their way. He’d try to save them again and again, because no matter which life he led, the ruminations spread through his bones, his flesh, his muscle, his existence.
Rexanna’s injuries during LongNight had merely meant more despair infused into his actions.
He watched her wink, felt the rise and fall of his chest on a rueful sigh, and stilled his head, before he shook it or rolled his eyes. Some emboldened trace of his being wanted to insinuate he very well could stop her; but over something meant to signify celebrations and contentment, it was far wiser merely to keep silent, accept her bestowal. [say]“Fine,”[/say] he muttered, begrudging, purposefully juvenile in the wrinkle of his nose, in the inclination of mischief in his eyes.
The same could be said for this world. Though it wasn’t entirely his to guard or defend, the position he’d filled meant protection, defense, and expressions of wisdom via weapons, techniques, and tactics, no matter what was damned and doomed to come their way. He’d try to save them again and again, because no matter which life he led, the ruminations spread through his bones, his flesh, his muscle, his existence.
Rexanna’s injuries during LongNight had merely meant more despair infused into his actions.
He watched her wink, felt the rise and fall of his chest on a rueful sigh, and stilled his head, before he shook it or rolled his eyes. Some emboldened trace of his being wanted to insinuate he very well could stop her; but over something meant to signify celebrations and contentment, it was far wiser merely to keep silent, accept her bestowal. [say]“Fine,”[/say] he muttered, begrudging, purposefully juvenile in the wrinkle of his nose, in the inclination of mischief in his eyes.
