[The Forgemaster’s lips thin, the olive branch left untaken. But it is not refused, either. Forgiveness had never been his strong suit; it invited tender, freshly sealed wounds to be torn open, and it was all too instinctive of him in uncertainty and wariness to seek control of the situation as best he knew how. But he’s tired and it shows in every sharp line of his face and in the shadows rimming haunted, heavy-lidded eyes. He’s tired of himself, of falling into the trap of wanting more where he couldn’t expect to find it, and when he hardly deserved it. But Hector’s gone now and had been for years, never having been in his grasp in the first place -- and so vanishes a few of those old, rotting hopes of more he’d nurtured for far too long, the fool that he was.
Hector had loved Rosaly. He had seen it. And her death could never take that away.
Something - he doesn’t know what… a fleeing sense of pride? Of indignation? - desperately attempts yet again to convince him that he can do better than this. That this is but another sad, cruel joke in his life, and what was one more? But in the weeks spent alone, brooding, he has seen that this is as good as it shall ever be in Luceti. And in time, he supposes, it shall be good enough.]
action
Hector had loved Rosaly. He had seen it. And her death could never take that away.
Something - he doesn’t know what… a fleeing sense of pride? Of indignation? - desperately attempts yet again to convince him that he can do better than this. That this is but another sad, cruel joke in his life, and what was one more? But in the weeks spent alone, brooding, he has seen that this is as good as it shall ever be in Luceti. And in time, he supposes, it shall be good enough.]