And then even that changes because she, strong and gentle and kind, gives way when they are told to leave, bowing before cold eyes and harsh threats again and again and again.
(he never understood that all trees must bend before the wind, lest they break)
That's the first time he argues with her, and so his beloved sister tells him that they are just two people in a world that is ready to despise them on sight. They must pick their battles, and do what they can – no more than that. So he decides to become stronger, so they can do more.
He is still a child, barely, when the war comes, but he is a child with magic singing in his veins. He has vanquished monsters and defended the helpless and spirits have pledged themselves to him – but none of that prepares him for war, and how it embeds itself into people, a parasite glutting itself on blood until they fight for the sake of keeping it alive.
He is a child, and his sister is dead, and everyone is wrong.
He becomes a ruler, growing up so fast that, really, he never grew up at all. He is sleek and confident and scornful, modeled on the nobles and kings he met and despised, and stronger than all of them. There are no negotiations, not with the Eternal Sword in hand, not when he's pruned mortality and hunger and sleep away from himself, guarded what's left with a shining jewel.
(it's the colour of her eyes, and maybe she's all that's important now)
In his ascent, he draws others to him, and they orbit him like he is their new sun. He can't understand their devotion – it is blind, fervent, but self-reflection was never one of his qualities – and he keeps them at bay, an army of traitors and zealots who he barely deigns to notice. He had allies once, friends, but they are caught in their own traps of grief, and he is imprisoned in childhood by it, looking forward and never back. He can't make mistakes, not when this is all for her sake.
So he punishes humanity for their collective blame, sacrifices lives like toys, and suddenly he is cold and arrogant and utterly alone.
(lloyd and the others are warm and bright and vivid, defending a life that he had given up on and abandoned, a world he had cut away when it has turned its back on him, and how dare they believe when he's lost all faith?)
He dies with his eyes open, refusing to change, refusing to let there be a change, and he is stiff ideals and stiff pride and a core rotted through with hate, and he breaks.
When he wakes up it is a new world, aching with loss like a wound he cannot possibly heal over, and all he has left are fragments of pride and lies and centuries of hatred. He pieces them back together, covering the cracks as best as he can and reaches out for something, anything, because he is adrift and alone and nothing was ever as it should have been.
He lays down roots in hatred, bitter and familiar soil but with fresh names, one that he spits like poison every time and another that's softer, gentler, but cuts his tongue when he says it. Both end up entwined around him, like snakes, like vines, and maybe he'll never pull free – but sometimes, he doesn't even care, because it might be a futile battle but it's one he knows, and repeating past mistakes is easier than making new ones.
It would be easier to fight it alone, but together is a word he's learning again, in a place he starts calling home, in the quiet moments of stargazing, the hopeful nostalgia of facing the world with people he loves.
(everything precious seems to slip through his fingers, time and again, but he's in the habit of reaching out nonetheless)
Grief still shadows his footsteps but he can feel it beginning to scar over, and hatred loosens its grip, little by little.
“You could have lived with us,” Lloyd told him, a heartbeat and an era ago, but death was easier – why not let go of one last thing, rather than try to take hold of what he's left behind? But he's well-rooted now, and life seems a little less impossible, the sky a little more in his reach. He can't have everything, and there are too many things lost that will never return, but he'll live on despite that, and remember them.
He is a child, but he's ready to grow up.
