resurrect the saint within the wretch
The laughter that finds her throat only warrants a gentle click of Warden’s deep navy eyes into hers, a wary look in their depths. It doesn’t occur to him that she might be laughing at his proclamation but more so that she cannot accept what fate has laid out before them so plainly. He doesn’t blame her for being quick to reach for solutions - that somehow their actions could change destiny and its design. This is her first time peering into such a future like the one he has accidentally shown her. He remembers the first time and how he had reacted. It had been much like the scene before him.
The Watcher does what he does best; he waits patiently, his face expressionless yet somehow soft in its stoicism. Had he known that her inner thoughts were battling the dark and the light, he would mention how the light has yet to save him, and how dark is the only thing that is even vaguely familiar, the only thing that grips him tight within the loneliness and the despair - the only thing that, even in its toxicity, reaches out for him.
“It will never matter,” he replies stonily with a gentle snort, “what is done, is done.”
His words are not meant to be in jest but in understanding. The gods and their infinite wisdom and knowledge will not step down to intercede on their behalf - no amount of prayers or wishes will rouse them awake. And even if they heard, they will not reply, for they have not answered him and Warden has asked and asked until his knees were bloody and he had gone blind from all the tears in his eyes. They are as silent and watchful as the stars.
The stars.
The thought brings a twitch across his pale lips, but that is all.
Warden offers her a small nod of his horned head, the blue opal of their texture shining in the light. “Maybe we are,” he agrees with a gentle roll of his shoulder. Together. The idea, though he isn’t sure if it’s true, feels true. “Maybe that is the reason that you have been able to see your friend’s death when you were not meant to.” He pauses, thoughtful and contemplative, and it darkens his features. “My name is Warden. I expect to see you again.” Not that he had seen it, of course, for his premonitions are only that of death and destruction. “When she dies, I fear I may be the only one who may understand such grief.” His face is sorrowful even as the shadows cross the ivory of his skin.
“I am sorry we could not have met under different circumstances.”
@[lilliana]
lol here is 'formal' and 'joyful'
