[ He lets her guide him back, dark eyes settling on hers– and the struggle behind them is entirely obvious. He swallows, hard, wanting so much to be stronger than this. But he has no hate to draw on, with her, and even his anger fails to stir. The only thing left is grief.
Regret.
He doesn't know how to contain it. Having relied on fury for so long, so much of the rest of him has wasted away. It feels like calling on muscles that have atrophied. ]
no subject
But he has no hate to draw on, with her, and even his anger fails to stir. The only thing left is grief.
Regret.
He doesn't know how to contain it. Having relied on fury for so long, so much of the rest of him has wasted away. It feels like calling on muscles that have atrophied. ]
I might have, once.
But no. I couldn't.