Sama'el sat there and kept eye contact with Leto when he could, listening to his stuttered telling of what he already knew, the summoner trying to put it into some kind of context for Sama'el, or perhaps for himself. Sam knew he certainly rationalized the hell out of his own past to make it more palatable at times. Finally he sighed, pulled Leto by the nape of the neck until their foreheads were touching, eyes still open and staring, kind, accepting. "You were right to run. When a battle is lost, sometimes it is better to flee, to save what remains of the pavilion, to guard it and nurture it back to health. When the bandits killed my family, my strider, H-Hasieran... I tried to fight even though it was stupid, even though I was horribly outmatched. All that got me was slavery, beatings, rape... They took away my Drykas soul and I didn't really get it back for ten years, even after I escaped from Sunberth. "I'm glad you ran, Leto. You spared yourself that degradation. For the longest time I didn't think I was worthy of being Drykas again. You survived. That is enough. Don't let the ghosts keep you from living." That said, he knelt down in front of Leto and embraced him. His fingers traced the scars on Leto's back without having to see them, the memory of them blazoned into his own. "These too are holy, my friend." |