𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔩.

Those three simple words resounded with the weight and force of a hammerblow. The effect both visibly profound and immediate on the Titan, rocking him back a step as he tried to process the gravity such a laconic statement contained. Already hunched shoulders unfurled as if a great weight worthy of Atlas himself had suddenly been removed, features so worn and harshly lined by inner conflict smoothing into unguarded surprise. “You believe me,” it was a statement with the lingering ring of a question beneath it. Enough that the Guardian needed to repeat it again, as if the simple act of repetition would reveal some hidden secret or unknowable jest that lurked between the syllables. “You believe me.” And the follow up that was perhaps more important, “Why?” 

To Gauvain’s infinite credit, he didn’t laugh. Not even a solitary chuckle or errant snicker. No chortle, guffaw or giggle. And efinitely not a titter. The Titan didn’t need to. The amusement was as plain as the midday sun, and not even his attempts to bite his lip could hide that damnable grin flaring just as brightly. That had to be what, the eighth time she had tried and failed? No, it had to be the ninth. They all tended to blur together after a while - although that last attempt had to be the most spectacular by far.  “Is this the right time for an ‘I told you so’? Because I feel it it’s a time for an ‘I told you so’.” He shook his head, “Why you need a shield when you have a perfectly good hammer is beyond me.”

A soft grunt was issued forth by way of disagreement. “Fighting might be the lion’s share of what we do, but that isn’t why we were brought back. We’re Guardians. We were brought back to protect.” A yell went up from behind him even as he spoke, dragging a weary-eyed gaze back to the still quarrelling masses. A mixture of both pity and disgust battling it out for supremacy across the Titan’s features, wooden railing groaning softly as his grip became anything but. Only bitter experience of old reined in his desire to step in, knowing full well the green pastures of the Barn would quickly turn red if the civilian refugees and ex-Guardians turned on one another any more than they had already.  “Although I sometimes wonder if we’re protecting the right things.” A bitter statement. One Ourus would have slapped him silly for once upon a time. And he would have welcomed it, even now. If only as a distraction. “They tend to call me Gauvain in these parts. Aelius Gauvain.”