[ it could drown him, the waves of emotion that come off abel, and then dokja. wouldn't it be so easy? there's sadness there, though not all of it, but even the brighter emotions are — painful. he can't know the cause of every feeling that ripples through the martyr legacy in this moment, but he can know some, guess at others. sympathy swells in his chest, and — well, it has been a long raid. he's done things he once would've never dreamt possible of himself, and that'll be something to square with later. and the giddiness of his relief has roots in grief that predates horos, doesn't it?
(we've lost too many people already. i can't lose anyone else.)
so he breathes in, bracingly, as they run. he can't pretend his own feelings aren't a ragged tangle, not with the connection between himself, and dokja, and abel, but he can reach for some measure of calm. there had been nights on the road to tar valon when he wasn't sure mat would make it to morning, and he'd kept his composure for his friend's sake even then.
maybe it's that memory that guides his choice now. he starts to hum softly, easily missed amidst the tumult of battle around them — but abel, at the very least, has to be near enough to hear. just some old mountain lullaby, a tune no one else in horos would recognize, a favorite of his mother's when he was very small and very fretful. and audible or not, that's something that starts to unfurl in their bond, like the slow bloom of a flower: the memory of being loved, gently soothed, and protected. something to hold onto, as they head towards the golden brightness that promises more friends, more aid. ]
also puts my hands around prince's neck
(we've lost too many people already. i can't lose anyone else.)
so he breathes in, bracingly, as they run. he can't pretend his own feelings aren't a ragged tangle, not with the connection between himself, and dokja, and abel, but he can reach for some measure of calm. there had been nights on the road to tar valon when he wasn't sure mat would make it to morning, and he'd kept his composure for his friend's sake even then.
maybe it's that memory that guides his choice now. he starts to hum softly, easily missed amidst the tumult of battle around them — but abel, at the very least, has to be near enough to hear. just some old mountain lullaby, a tune no one else in horos would recognize, a favorite of his mother's when he was very small and very fretful. and audible or not, that's something that starts to unfurl in their bond, like the slow bloom of a flower: the memory of being loved, gently soothed, and protected. something to hold onto, as they head towards the golden brightness that promises more friends, more aid. ]