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It helped a bit, that he hadn’t been given a choice either.
He told me so, one afternoon, over tea. Lifting his cup, he tried not to wince as bruises bloomed under his suit from our training session, where my anger had bled through. I began to see how the rigid armor of tradition held him upright, both protection and prison. But the gift he wanted to give me was his strength, not mine.
We would never be close, my Watcher and I. He lived for denial and duty, I for for the passionate hunt. I could only forgive him.