the things we hold are always the first to go
It hits Ronin in a string of blows so low that, were it not for his near superhuman levels of endurance, it might just have bent him double. It's visible though, the way each barb buries itself deeply in him; things that Cian shouldn't know but does; things that the Eye flings at him in anger, dry and condescending though that anger might be. Things Cian uses as weapons, not understanding how sharp they are. Like a child.
The light within the Star grows very bright and very harsh, as if it might detonate at any moment - the fury in him swells and grows... and promptly fades again, as does the starlight. It hasn't dissipated - quite the opposite, in fact. Ronin has swallowed it, burning, to keep for later.
"One day," he says softly and politely to Cian, "I am going to kill you with my bare hands. I don't know when. It might be decades. But I promise you it will happen." Exhaling a shuddering breath, he straightens out his shirt and clears his throat, turning suddenly blank eyes towards the bar where he calls for a cloth and something with which to clean the glass up.
The light within the Star grows very bright and very harsh, as if it might detonate at any moment - the fury in him swells and grows... and promptly fades again, as does the starlight. It hasn't dissipated - quite the opposite, in fact. Ronin has swallowed it, burning, to keep for later.
"One day," he says softly and politely to Cian, "I am going to kill you with my bare hands. I don't know when. It might be decades. But I promise you it will happen." Exhaling a shuddering breath, he straightens out his shirt and clears his throat, turning suddenly blank eyes towards the bar where he calls for a cloth and something with which to clean the glass up.
