[ The name drifts quietly, respectfully, from his lips. He's well-versed in the tone and timbre of grief; he knows long sorrow, still as sore as the day the cut was first received. It's as familiar a sound as the report of his own pistol, the way the air moves around the blade of his sword.
Andโ
His own gaze lifts from the fire, following the trails of sparks up into the sky where they disappear among the stars that are laid so thickly here. ]
How many children did you have?
[ However many it was, they too must have been lost long ago, and yet there's a layer beneath the understanding in his voice that even now he can't quite entirely cut out of himself: longing.
Another life, another future. It's a dream he had to let go of long ago. That he still cherishes part of it, held close to his heart like a secret, is his own fault and no one else's. ]
no subject
[ The name drifts quietly, respectfully, from his lips. He's well-versed in the tone and timbre of grief; he knows long sorrow, still as sore as the day the cut was first received. It's as familiar a sound as the report of his own pistol, the way the air moves around the blade of his sword.
Andโ
His own gaze lifts from the fire, following the trails of sparks up into the sky where they disappear among the stars that are laid so thickly here. ]
How many children did you have?
[ However many it was, they too must have been lost long ago, and yet there's a layer beneath the understanding in his voice that even now he can't quite entirely cut out of himself: longing.
Another life, another future. It's a dream he had to let go of long ago. That he still cherishes part of it, held close to his heart like a secret, is his own fault and no one else's. ]