There is something heavy about their interaction, he notices. Some gravity to it that he does not fully understand and does not seem to have anything to do with the golden tears that puddle and pool at his feet or the truth of what had happened at the Mountain. Although this weighs heavy on his heart, despite the fact that Plumeria had assured him that the Mountain does strange things to the minds of those who dare venture there. Her insistence that their daughter is out there somewhere still, alive and whole and untouched by the things he’d had to do to her beneath the earth’s surface.
He shifts his weight and studies his companion through the gold haze of those tears that cut rivers down his cheeks without relent. They do not even slow. And when he tilts his head, the thorns cut deeper into his poll and he grimaces, peers down at the gold newly shot through with deep red blood.
“No,” he answers, quiet. Perhaps he should have lied, painted himself a hero. She is a stranger, the dark girl stood beside him. He could be anyone he wanted to be. Someone who could save those he loved instead of killing them all. Someone worthy of their love in the first place.
“I shouldn’t have gone in the first place,” he murmurs, turning his gaze to the horizon. He stays very still for fear that he might further disturb the thorns. “I’ve never been a hero,” he continues, uncertain why he is spilling all of this on her. Perhaps because she has no reason to try to convince him otherwise and there is something cathartic in that. “I had no business thinking I could be one.”