[One man's idea of slaughter is another man's entertainment, his justice. Killing can't quiet the past or give him back the life he never had in the first place - and he knows this whenever the thrill dies off, always too soon, and he goes cold again. But raising his weapon means he isn't running or forced to hide like he used to; he isn't the helpless little boy he was once, nearly dying to men just like these hunters. Humans who could look at a pathetic wreck sobbing for mercy, and see only a liar, a creature, a threat to their own. He can't forgive, and he can't forget.
So he kills, and he laughs.
Whether Julia had ever understood that, he doesn't know, and tries not to care. She could do anything she wanted to try and change Wallachia, to heal everything that was wrong with it, he thinks, but she could never change him.
His smirk falters at Hector's unsteady approach, his empty hand. Something stirs inside him, closer to wariness than worry, and he doesn't like it. Hector doesn't seem wounded, but in the same way Hector is wondering about the blood streaking his furred cloak and scant armour plating, he can't be sure. He narrows his eyes, his gaze seeking the fairy before snapping back to Hector's face.]
Then arm yourself. [He says, more a command than anything else.]
no subject
So he kills, and he laughs.
Whether Julia had ever understood that, he doesn't know, and tries not to care. She could do anything she wanted to try and change Wallachia, to heal everything that was wrong with it, he thinks, but she could never change him.
His smirk falters at Hector's unsteady approach, his empty hand. Something stirs inside him, closer to wariness than worry, and he doesn't like it. Hector doesn't seem wounded, but in the same way Hector is wondering about the blood streaking his furred cloak and scant armour plating, he can't be sure. He narrows his eyes, his gaze seeking the fairy before snapping back to Hector's face.]
Then arm yourself. [He says, more a command than anything else.]