[He swings the rapier so the thin flat of the blade rests against his shoulder. He hears the metal scrape the ratty t-shirt he's wearing - he's been using and washing his clothes so much and so many times they're starting to reach a lamentable state.
Because it's part of what he does every day, really. It became part of him. The moment his eyes could no longer reach light, as if that white-hot flash that burned his flesh had been the full quota of what he would see in a lifetime, shortened to an instant.
Except he hadn't really been given much time to be afraid when he was blinded. Even then, he's not even sure that it was fear that came later. When they wouldn't allow him to leave the sick bay of the military compound he had been carried to after the mission. That emptiness that he had felt when he was ten years old, lying in his grandfather's house, the full moon glaring at him, louder than the cicadas that summer. It came back with a vengeance, making up for the lost time where he forced himself to think about anything that required his complete focus. Slipping between the cracks, while he ran what had happened in the mission in his mind - what had failed, what could've been, what that guy would've done instead. Sneaking where he had no visual aid to his memory, only relying on sound, temperature, kinetics.
When he speaks, the voice is low, but it carries easily - it's as if he's used to speaking in places where he shouldn't be heard. ]
no subject
Because it's part of what he does every day, really. It became part of him. The moment his eyes could no longer reach light, as if that white-hot flash that burned his flesh had been the full quota of what he would see in a lifetime, shortened to an instant.
Except he hadn't really been given much time to be afraid when he was blinded. Even then, he's not even sure that it was fear that came later. When they wouldn't allow him to leave the sick bay of the military compound he had been carried to after the mission. That emptiness that he had felt when he was ten years old, lying in his grandfather's house, the full moon glaring at him, louder than the cicadas that summer. It came back with a vengeance, making up for the lost time where he forced himself to think about anything that required his complete focus. Slipping between the cracks, while he ran what had happened in the mission in his mind - what had failed, what could've been, what that guy would've done instead. Sneaking where he had no visual aid to his memory, only relying on sound, temperature, kinetics.
When he speaks, the voice is low, but it carries easily - it's as if he's used to speaking in places where he shouldn't be heard. ]
What do you think fear is?