It's her. It's her, it's her, it's Meulin. She's alive. She shines off his visor and in his eyes. She doesn't fight, she just waits for him to kill her. Vividly, he sees the swings of a club, the blood, the sound of cracking bone, and he wasn't even there for that part. His hands shake. He can't breathe.
She takes that time to move, to run, away from him and he can't allow it. His hand snaps out, grasping her arm, stopping her. He grips tight, and his other hand fumbles the knife back in its sheath at his hip, missing once, twice, nearly mother fuckin stabbing himself. He deserve it. Oh god he'd deserve it all, maybe someone will kill him, he hopes.
He doesn't let her go. With the weapon away he's fumbling for the helmet next, pushing it clumsily off his head, wincing as it pulls hair, wincing at the crack it makes as it hits the ground. His breath is a loud rasp through stitches but she won't hear it.
Very suddenly, he regrets stopping her, and more that that, he regrets revealing himself. He lets go of her as if burned. He bends fast and picks the helmet back up, holding it to his chest as he steps back.
no subject
She takes that time to move, to run, away from him and he can't allow it. His hand snaps out, grasping her arm, stopping her. He grips tight, and his other hand fumbles the knife back in its sheath at his hip, missing once, twice, nearly mother fuckin stabbing himself. He deserve it. Oh god he'd deserve it all, maybe someone will kill him, he hopes.
He doesn't let her go. With the weapon away he's fumbling for the helmet next, pushing it clumsily off his head, wincing as it pulls hair, wincing at the crack it makes as it hits the ground. His breath is a loud rasp through stitches but she won't hear it.
Very suddenly, he regrets stopping her, and more that that, he regrets revealing himself. He lets go of her as if burned. He bends fast and picks the helmet back up, holding it to his chest as he steps back.