and I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
He's angry, about a lot of things. It sits in his chest like a hot coal, sharp, unpleasant, building up frustrations, pressure he can't ease. There's no one to take it out on, for no one is—strictly speaking—to blame.He's angry at himself, for trusting blindly. For not questioning. For not realizing. For not.. what? He'd like to say it had been too late, but that's to flee responsibility.
Soot streaks his messy braid, his fine cheekbones, his slender hands.
He's a stray cat that survived the fire, fur all dirty now and soul hopeless.
"Wessex," he says, quietly. Calmly. (His eyes are a storm.) There's not much else to say. Slowly, carefully, he walks over warped floorboards and the remnants of lives, approaching the armory and beginning to clear out a space in there. Before he can sort through the weaponry (and being a weaponsmith, he's quite experienced in seeing what's salvageable or not) he needs to remove the debris, such as the fallen-down roof.
Aamu goes to the armory and begins to clear away the debris in preparation for going through the weapons etc!
Aamu
