[ his memories invariably start with this: two children, locked in a tower behind a wooden door that may as well been made of adamantium for their terribly small fists, a single window that, if they stood on their tiptoes one by one, portrayed nothing but the mocking blue sky. one child with a pair of radiant wings the colours of the setting sun. the other with sickly white ones, pressed tight against a pale, frail back. one child striking the other one down with tears outlined stark and pale against flushed cheeks, anger written over the pallid contours of a scrunched up face, holding back grief.
'stop, stop it. stop trying to get me to abandon you!'
in the present, torth's arms encircle him and drag him up like a limp doll from the mud-strewn ground. the flames-- ah, so that's where they originate from, that searing pain that had embraced his entire body concentrated in a sordid patch pressed against his back. his right wing must've broken in the fall, and now torth's meaty palms are now pressing into it as though his life depended on it. but through the pain, all eseld is really concerned about is the fact that his hair must be utterly insalvageable by now, likely needs about five hours worth of steady cantrips to return to its former shine, and that's just unfair.
your life still has value, torth says. i will never, ever regret choosing you, right here and now, over anyone else, he says. words that would make plenty a woman overjoyed if they were so uttered in such a way, torth's sincerity and righteous indignation powering every single utterance. eseld feels tired. a paladin who values all life understands nothing about the life of a single individual. a paladin that regrets everything regrets nothing.
there's a lot that he can say in response. inevitably, however, what comes out first is this: ]
Quite rich, isn't it, coming from a man who's already tossed me aside once. [ the mirthless smile on eseld's face portrays exactly what he thinks about this droll scenario. he falls silent for a long moment however as a tremor of discomfort sifts through his body. his wing is no longer flame-- it's the icy-cold touch of death.
pleasant, all in all. a softer breath-- that despite everything, his gaze up at torth's face is clear, sharp, and unhindered by pain, still ever-full of mockery. ] Remember what I advised? Only ever say what you mean, and mean what you say. And someone who promises so easily...
[ he trails off for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut. ]
Well... let's put it this way: never make a promise that you can't keep, Torth Seaglow.
Now, are you going to walk, or am I going to die in your arms like this?
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'stop, stop it. stop trying to get me to abandon you!'
in the present, torth's arms encircle him and drag him up like a limp doll from the mud-strewn ground. the flames-- ah, so that's where they originate from, that searing pain that had embraced his entire body concentrated in a sordid patch pressed against his back. his right wing must've broken in the fall, and now torth's meaty palms are now pressing into it as though his life depended on it. but through the pain, all eseld is really concerned about is the fact that his hair must be utterly insalvageable by now, likely needs about five hours worth of steady cantrips to return to its former shine, and that's just unfair.
your life still has value, torth says. i will never, ever regret choosing you, right here and now, over anyone else, he says. words that would make plenty a woman overjoyed if they were so uttered in such a way, torth's sincerity and righteous indignation powering every single utterance. eseld feels tired. a paladin who values all life understands nothing about the life of a single individual. a paladin that regrets everything regrets nothing.
there's a lot that he can say in response. inevitably, however, what comes out first is this: ]
Quite rich, isn't it, coming from a man who's already tossed me aside once. [ the mirthless smile on eseld's face portrays exactly what he thinks about this droll scenario. he falls silent for a long moment however as a tremor of discomfort sifts through his body. his wing is no longer flame-- it's the icy-cold touch of death.
pleasant, all in all. a softer breath-- that despite everything, his gaze up at torth's face is clear, sharp, and unhindered by pain, still ever-full of mockery. ] Remember what I advised? Only ever say what you mean, and mean what you say. And someone who promises so easily...
[ he trails off for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut. ]
Well... let's put it this way: never make a promise that you can't keep, Torth Seaglow.
Now, are you going to walk, or am I going to die in your arms like this?