who we are and all that we're trying to be
He ignored the barb towards Jigano – tempting as it was to dig into it with relish and rage, come out with more grudges, this one couldn’t be pinned on the Sage. Deimos had seen him working, striving, trying, stitching and mending bones alongside Zuriel, Amun holding the staff, everything else spiraling back. Time. It would just take time. Time while Amalia suffered and chastened, agonized and doubted; another patient, foreboding, waiting game he’d otherwise have no spurning towards. Except it was the Shield – and there was not much else he could do. So the General nodded, a silent acceptance, even if he didn’t care for the answer. Even if he’d been yearning for something different.
His expectations were instantly warped in another direction though, uncertain about the narrowing of her eyes, entirely too coy, bemused, and given the situation, given the ruminations over why he’d come, he nearly shied away from it, his senses sharpening until her voice spun along stars. Weddings. Dances. Things that felt like lifetimes ago.
Then he snorted.
“For her health and wellbeing,” he answered first, the seriousness still not sliding off, neither used to being teased, taunted, or prodded at by a deity, much less Amalia’s herald of choice. There was no race here towards altars and promises; his conviction hadn’t changed. His eyes were narrowed too, before giving in slightly, only the tilt of his head indicating any other sentiment – curiosity, the weight of acceptance somewhere in the midst of his shoulders. Wanting to be enough. “You approve then?” Even if it had come across lighter, almost diverting and self-deprecating, he might’ve craved it for Amalia, for himself, for being worthy of such things. “Would you be willing to come?” Whenever it happened?
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
