There is a certain sort of frustration that comes along with having to abandon 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 cause towards something which he grew to love in the abstract and knowing that that thing was meant to be used, manipulated, sullied. There is an odd sort of desolation knowing that you can never go home again.
The desolation is easiest to ignore.
Niflheim may burn 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 burns 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.
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 BURNED 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 does have to sleep outside, tonight. Not important in the grand scheme of things, perhaps, but Dorian has never been good with nature.
❝ You don’t smile much, do you, Commander? ❞ Perhaps not a proper title, any longer, but there is still a LIGHTNESS in his tone, in spite of the situation. A curve to his mouth. ❝ Perpetual frowning is known to cause premature wrinkles, and that would be quite the shame. ❞
@impatiore // take this and my love