He isn’t the man for this. For narrow rooms filled with the sound of shuddering sobs, or the pain of tangled blame overgrown with time and knotted anguish.

Gabranth— Noah. Kingslayer, his brother’s cruel jailor: willing pawn, treacherous impostor, a merciless traitor utterly devoid of honor. A life lived only in pain from a past gone rotted with misery. What right has he to offer assurances or promise of peace? His own amends were paid in blood, and he would not suggest Benedict do the same.

...but maybe that is the point. To advise another soul away from his own endless errors.

“These things cannot be changed.” It’s a hushed sigh of a sound, something that precedes the way he sets his heavy helmet aside— careful when he moves nearer to Benedict, kneeling across stone flooring. Within arm’s reach, yet not touching.

“The pain of it endures, and so must we, for it is unjust to ask those who we’ve brought suffering upon to bear the consequences of our misdeeds alone.”

If his friend is gone, if the woman he’d sought to save is misplaced or in despair, then they alone cannot be the testament to that turbulent chapter.

“Atone, Benedict. In their honor, until your fingers bleed and you can walk no further.”