these shallow heights

SuNjATA

the flood

She mentions he’s not much of a writer, and he wants to hum a light laugh at that. He wasn’t much of a fighter before, but things change. People change. But you don’t know unless you try. So he remains, leaning against the bookshelf, folding his arms carefully across his chest to not bother the new tattoo along his chest. His steel eyes scan over her face, listening to her sigh at her uncertainty, and he remains quiet for a brief moment.

“Maybe you can write it out, live vicariously through it?” He suggests quietly, soft and accented as he tilts his head to her. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do after I won the trial. Everyone wanted me to move on, take up the mantle of following the Arbiters footsteps. And I couldn’t. So they stationed me away in the Slums to deal with it head on.” It’s not the same, but there’s a point he’s trying to make. And an attempt of him opening up further for her, so she can see a bit more through the window of who he is. “As much as it seems like I’d rather do things head on, I don’t. So I did a lot of writing about how I would handle incidents or events. It helped.”

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