I wield my sword to save lives. If I can't save those closest to me, is life worth living?

[His head tilts, flickering over Scaramouche's face, searching desperately. His brows knit, his face still hot from the rush of emotions, his chest aching in a way that send pain down his hands. It's no use— there's no regret to be found on his face, though perhaps only for upsetting him.]

The person you've been around me, was that all a lie?