Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā There is a certain sort of frustration that comes along with having to abandonĀ your home and everything you once knew in the name of doing what is RIGHT. There is a strange sort of anger that permeates thinking of dedication / devotion / determination towards a causeĀ towards something which he grew to loveĀ in the abstract and knowing that that thingĀ was meant to be used, manipulated, sullied. There is an odd sort of desolation knowing that you can never go home again.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā The desolation is easiest to ignore.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Niflheim may burnĀ and he will spare it merely a thought so long as the world does not burn with it. That, however, is a blatant lie and he knows it as he thinks it, as its poison drips and settles and burnsĀ in his throat. He loves his country. He despises what it has become. Two sides, at war, merely within his bones and skin and blood.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā That does not change that he is a fugitive, now. Research tucked close to his chest ( literally so, important papers folded tight ; the rest had been BURNEDĀ as he fled ) and he / it / they are wanted. Wanted as he watches the sun set on the horizon and feels a deep sort of displeasure at the thought that, yes, he doesĀ have to sleep outside, tonight. Not important in the grand scheme of things, perhaps, but Dorian has never been good with nature.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā āĀ You donāt smile much, do you, Commander?Ā āĀ Perhaps not a proper title, any longer, but there is still a LIGHTNESSĀ in his tone, in spite of the situation. A curve to his mouth.Ā āĀ Perpetual frowningĀ is known to cause premature wrinkles, and thatĀ would be quite the shame.Ā ā
@impatiore // take this and my love