[ ah, the foolish courage of motion. each moment alala's body strikes the ground, there is a kind of echoing clang, and screech, as of metal dragging against stone. this despite the fact that his body is wrapped around the dull blade. and the words seem to echo in his head like a refrain: make me your sword, make me your sword, make me your sword. they are not his words, he can feel their desperation beating against the shield of his own stubbornness.

then there is gentiana's stillness. it settles about his shoulders like a weight, pressing down. why not just keep waiting. wait and wait and wait for someone to come, though someone will never come, though all might be empty forever—
(who are you, gentiana? who are you, here in the dark?) ]