[The scene is dim - lit, in fact, only by the PCD, as the windows of Saul's house are shut. The device has been knocked to the floor and captures the darkened bedroom. Saul is sitting up in the bed, hunched over, looking a wreck: bloodied, bandaged with scrapes of cloth, and dazed with fever. He stares at the air and mutters to himself, at some delirious shadows on he can see.]
I don't care, Grandfather. I have a talent, a gift, Mithra's own gift, and the army feeds me better than you ever could -
- I won't spare you, give me my gun - !
[He lurches forward at whatever it is he's seeing, reaching out a hand, but of course only grabs thin air. He blinks, shakes his head, then goes ashen pale; he rolls off the bed and drops with a heavy sound to the far side, and thus is thankfully out of the PCD's sight while being sick.
After a while, he appears again, pulling himself back onto the bed with an effort. His eyes are clearer now, motions steadier. Perhaps the fever has broken. His face is a mask of helpless frustration.
He sits on the bed and stares down at his hands.]
I am the most powerful Guardian on the continent... but what is a Guardian, here?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
