there would never be numbness; never would i grow tired or used to witnessing such absurd displays of violence; acts that rebel against what chivalry and pride really was. with my nose upturned, i scorned the sorry sight before us, my anger spilling through shallow breaths. every step was taken with reluctance; dread. my boots stepped upon the broken bits of ruin and gravel, the mild air sweeping dust, collecting in mini whirlpools at my feet. my right hand was placed upon the handle of my sword, the other, moving debris. at seliphâs words, my face scrunched. â perhaps far ⌠take a look at the vile and rotten ruin that surrounds us. â it felt wrong that seliph was crossing this path, like a warm light trying to make its way through the clutches of hell, alongside one of its abandoned children. i looked at my own hands for a brief moment, viewing the scarring, the cracks in my armor, however small, and the stained blood that had since gone a murky brown. it was a sight i had become so accustomed to, that otherwise felt unnatural.
when the noise of seliphâs footsteps stopped, i halted and turned to see his expression, first and foremost, my eyes falling then to the toy in his hands. this sadness was different. it was the sort that pin-pricked your heart every so often; a finger poking at your chest, leaving it stinging, as if the godsâ touch was enough to leave a bruise. this ache i felt was something i couldnât swallow, unlike the everlasting hurt that war left you; a gift which is left unopened, ribbon still tied. i made my way to seliph, my movement slow, my frown still complacent upon my face. there wasnât much to say, other than a hand on his shoulder. i couldnât say anything that wasnât already horribly displayed before us; fate was offering us its torment in both hands.
â ⌠thereâs no point in standing around here, seliph, â i said. my hand fell then, back to the handle of my sword. â swallow your grief too early, and it could make it worse for us later. â i offered my sorrow through the truth. i wanted to help, but couldnât deny, too, the falling of my stomach. i felt sick.
There was truth in Aresâ words, and Seliph finds that in the end, he cannot push back the grief that welled in his chest anyway. Though against them, time demands that they press onward. Silence takes any sort of voice Seliph may have had, as a knee dips into the dirt once more. Calloused hands set the toy back onto the floor -- fingers brushing against the dried blood with a quiet agony. Seliph sighs then, deep and pained, and he pushes himself back to a stand.
   â...Youâre right, Ares.â His voice almost lost -- it was so hard to keep it steady, all of a sudden. Authority, as it always had, does eventually find its way back into the bearer of the worldâs hope. But there was only so much said world could show him -- so much innocence it could take from a heart that bleeds so easily for others. Seliph keeps his face turned from Ares -- his back strong, shoulders steady despite the weight pressing into his bones. His eyes find the sky, welled and misty. All it takes is a breath, and a barrier breaks -- grief pours in steady streams down Seliphâs cheeks.Â
    âI musnât forget this pain,â Seliph says, âotherwise Iâll forget what weâre fighting for.â Then, as Ares suggested, Seliph steps forward. The wind bellows and beckons him forth, and now, he looks ahead as the world demands of him. â...This grief -- itâs never been just my own.â
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