[His gaze drifts fleetingly to her hand, having seen it lift, then away once more. It's for the best; he's probably a mess, bloody and miserable and in much need of a shower, and she's so... pure, for lack of a less cliche term. She's good and fair and kind and he stabbed his mother. People like them shouldn't mix.
Still, her presence is soothing. He's just wary of coming to rely on it when he knows that it isn't one that he can keep- when he has to get over this and return to the front lines. It isn't as if the war will pause until he gets over this.
If he ever does. That remains to be seen.]
...Thank you.
[It's faint this time, almost inaudible; not a phrase he says often, or easily. But what else is there to say, at this point?
He can't count the number of people he's killed over the course of his life, doing the work he does, but he hasn't felt the weight of his title since he was a child. It's a more harsh burden than he remembers.]
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Still, her presence is soothing. He's just wary of coming to rely on it when he knows that it isn't one that he can keep- when he has to get over this and return to the front lines. It isn't as if the war will pause until he gets over this.
If he ever does. That remains to be seen.]
...Thank you.
[It's faint this time, almost inaudible; not a phrase he says often, or easily. But what else is there to say, at this point?
He can't count the number of people he's killed over the course of his life, doing the work he does, but he hasn't felt the weight of his title since he was a child. It's a more harsh burden than he remembers.]