She appears in the doorway, framed in haphazardly pinned hair and comfortable clothes, and the room vanishes. Scar’s hand lifts slowly, the back of his knuckles pressing to his lips.
"Thank you, God, that it was me." The words erupt from Scar’s lips in a mangled blend of Ishbalan and whatever common tongue is in this world. We can call it Ishbommon.
The mist in his eyes that Scar has tenuously leashed since Route 29, since Violet, since sitting here in torturous wait, spills shamelessly over his cheeks. Beholding the face of a woman he hasn’t seen age a day in twenty years, at long last a little bit older, a little bit more lived, robs his lungs of air, his legs of strength, and his mouth of any other words.
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"Thank you, God, that it was me." The words erupt from Scar’s lips in a mangled blend of Ishbalan and whatever common tongue is in this world. We can call it Ishbommon.
The mist in his eyes that Scar has tenuously leashed since Route 29, since Violet, since sitting here in torturous wait, spills shamelessly over his cheeks. Beholding the face of a woman he hasn’t seen age a day in twenty years, at long last a little bit older, a little bit more lived, robs his lungs of air, his legs of strength, and his mouth of any other words.
"Thank you, God, that it was me."