[ No, he'd never been kind, and he cannot express, not even now, how much he regrets that. But he's learned that apologies don't mean anything if they aren't paid with blood, and by the time she had arrived, wreathed in red, he'd finished his penance already (and never once, during those trials, had he shed a tear; that had come later).
Finally, he meets her gaze, and for a single instant there's a spark in his eyes that reads of the anger that had driven him so strongly before. (He has never liked being told what to do and he has always liked it even less with the application of force.) But it dies as soon as it's ignited, pummeled down by the guilt that has made a permanent home upon his shoulders. ]
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Finally, he meets her gaze, and for a single instant there's a spark in his eyes that reads of the anger that had driven him so strongly before. (He has never liked being told what to do and he has always liked it even less with the application of force.) But it dies as soon as it's ignited, pummeled down by the guilt that has made a permanent home upon his shoulders. ]
Fine. Fine. What do you want?