It’s easier with that burdensome helm in place. To be shoved and seem immobile against that desperate momentum, to be barked at and weather it without glimpse of anger, or embittered frustration.

Instead, she reaches out to push him, and his lip twists back into a scowl for it.

Gauntleted hand rising to snare her outstretched wrist, working to pull it aside in order to cease that volatile shift, rather than weather it without consequence.

He’s always expected more from those around him than from himself.

“Be silent before you are heard—“