Princesses, enchantresses, fair maidens ... Some things about Ossie begin to make more sense. "Charming company? Generous hosts?"
Dimitri leans against the wall, and slides down it. Legs folded, spine straight. A house of cards held together by his precise angles. An ogre, a soldier, a monster, a beast -- nothing he hasn't said himself. Nothing he hasn't always known.
"Faerghus ... my country ... all but worships war. Death in the name of duty. Killing in the name of justice. Honorable sacrifice. I was raised as a soldier, by soldiers, who should have known better, but that's what I was taught." His jaw is tight, his face drawn and pale. His hands tremble, balled into fists on his lap. "I had to see it myself to understand -- kings and knights and commoners all die when their blood is spilled, and their bodies all rot the same. There is no glory in death, no honor, no nobility. Just a person who used to laugh, and weep, and love, and be loved, reduced to meat and fat and broken bone. Or metal." He still recalls SecUnit in pieces across the diner road.
He forces his hands to relax, only for them to tangle in his lap, battered fingers twisting together.
Quietly: "I don't. Have the strength for restraint. Here, yes. In skirmishes. But every time I've truly needed it ... " He shakes his head slightly, gaze fixed in the middle distance. "I know exactly what my hands can do to a living body."
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Dimitri leans against the wall, and slides down it. Legs folded, spine straight. A house of cards held together by his precise angles. An ogre, a soldier, a monster, a beast -- nothing he hasn't said himself. Nothing he hasn't always known.
"Faerghus ... my country ... all but worships war. Death in the name of duty. Killing in the name of justice. Honorable sacrifice. I was raised as a soldier, by soldiers, who should have known better, but that's what I was taught." His jaw is tight, his face drawn and pale. His hands tremble, balled into fists on his lap. "I had to see it myself to understand -- kings and knights and commoners all die when their blood is spilled, and their bodies all rot the same. There is no glory in death, no honor, no nobility. Just a person who used to laugh, and weep, and love, and be loved, reduced to meat and fat and broken bone. Or metal." He still recalls SecUnit in pieces across the diner road.
He forces his hands to relax, only for them to tangle in his lap, battered fingers twisting together.
Quietly: "I don't. Have the strength for restraint. Here, yes. In skirmishes. But every time I've truly needed it ... " He shakes his head slightly, gaze fixed in the middle distance. "I know exactly what my hands can do to a living body."