Her mouth draws tight, a line of suppressed rage. It would have to do for a glare. The warrior sighs and considers his blade, pitted and stained.
“Thou judgest me?” she demands. It is an accusation meant as rebuke wrapped in a question.
He hesitates not, “Aye, and more in time. I make no pretense to understand your gift, but this course. Surely, the world is full enough of pain and misery. Is it not inherent to existing that we suffer want and worry, pain and disappointment? Why add more.” His voice does nought but convey his utter conviction at the unpleasantness of life.
A smile bends the line of her mouth, “I understand now thine avoidance of my sight, such as it is. Thy soul is already dead; it plays no song.”
“Aye, milady, and ye’ve yerself to thank for that.” He hefts the blade, “Do ye wish to know the moment, the angle of the strike to come, milady? Shall I warn thee?”
Breath catches in a fragile chest. Sight beyond sight goes dark.
She whispers a final wish, her life’s one lack, “Surprise me.”