Stray flakes stuck to his eyelashes, and he blinked them away, rolling down his face, tears that were not real. He tightened his grip on the leather wrapped hilt of his sword, the material groaning in protest, the flecks of dried blood cracking and falling away from his wiry fingers. He could not say how long he stood there, staring. The moments rolled into days, and the hours to seconds. He could have stood there for a thousand eternities, or for the scantest of instants. All he knew was that eventually, he would return once more. And he would fight.