Of fighting? No, perish the thought! I could do this into oblivion itself!
[ He both can, and cannot, tire of fighting. The embodiment of war itself will always be spurred into battle-action, into grappling with a direct opponent or tearing into some opposing structure, some psychological frame of reference to send rival armies crying to their homes. He loves to fight. He comes alive, when he fights. Even in the root-caverns below, he was at his best when fighting — with his fists, with his Meridian-bright glory, even in quiet corners where he had fought so very, very hard to prove he could be a way back for newly-minted Zenites.
He could be a home. ( A home requires a foundation. Four walls, a roof. A capable protector, the ghost murmurs to him, they could not find it in you, but I would help you show them. ) He will always FIGHT. But, with them. With himself and Hayame? He admits, it is hard. Every day it is hard, with her. ]
Do you think I regret fighting with you, Hayame?
[ He does not regret, but he does tire. He does, and he does not. Above all else, if they must fight, he would like it to be in a new way. Not the same terrain, the same words, the same arguments. Perhaps, that is why — ( he feels hands upon his wrists that are not there / the dark string of his weapon flowing between his fingers, growing in length as the sands of his own body begin to coalesce into a long, twining bow / he nocks immediately ) — he calls to her: ] I told you, I really am not in the mood —
[ Blood-red flowers blossom along the seams of his fingers, petals raking across his forearms and arrows as he draws, as fluid as her despite the discrepancy in their size. His mouth snarls, frustrated. She will have seen his gaze, of course; she will know his wrath is a desperate, pained thing. So, he must be strong and terrible before her, lest she abandon him. ]
But, my dear friend, if you insist — I will drive you out of here!
8) !!
[ He both can, and cannot, tire of fighting. The embodiment of war itself will always be spurred into battle-action, into grappling with a direct opponent or tearing into some opposing structure, some psychological frame of reference to send rival armies crying to their homes. He loves to fight. He comes alive, when he fights. Even in the root-caverns below, he was at his best when fighting — with his fists, with his Meridian-bright glory, even in quiet corners where he had fought so very, very hard to prove he could be a way back for newly-minted Zenites.
He could be a home. ( A home requires a foundation. Four walls, a roof. A capable protector, the ghost murmurs to him, they could not find it in you, but I would help you show them. ) He will always FIGHT. But, with them. With himself and Hayame? He admits, it is hard. Every day it is hard, with her. ]
Do you think I regret fighting with you, Hayame?
[ He does not regret, but he does tire. He does, and he does not. Above all else, if they must fight, he would like it to be in a new way. Not the same terrain, the same words, the same arguments. Perhaps, that is why — ( he feels hands upon his wrists that are not there / the dark string of his weapon flowing between his fingers, growing in length as the sands of his own body begin to coalesce into a long, twining bow / he nocks immediately ) — he calls to her: ] I told you, I really am not in the mood —
[ Blood-red flowers blossom along the seams of his fingers, petals raking across his forearms and arrows as he draws, as fluid as her despite the discrepancy in their size. His mouth snarls, frustrated. She will have seen his gaze, of course; she will know his wrath is a desperate, pained thing. So, he must be strong and terrible before her, lest she abandon him. ]
But, my dear friend, if you insist — I will drive you out of here!
[ And he fires upon her. ]