[ Any other man might have well celebrated being brought from the very brink of death to a place like Caer Glaem, from breathing his last to drinking his fill of unparalleled light and beauty. But Gabranth can find little to celebrate here. These gilded halls speak not to him of radiance and glory, but rather of radiance and glory to which he has no right to bear witness.
Why had he chosen to come here after all? Would death not have been a greater honor, a more fitting price to pay for all his misdeeds?
It's a question he turns over and over in his mind as he watches the merrymaking from afar, standing back against a bannered wall, still armored in full judicer's plate; his broken helm, cracked open and apart by Vayne Solidor's shearing blade, is tucked away in the crook of his arm. His dark mood is perhaps evident at a distance, as he makes no attempt to mask it on his face. Despite what he's been told, he cannot bring himself to believe that any of this is truly meant for the likes of him. ]
gabranth || final fantasy xii || ota (01)
Why had he chosen to come here after all? Would death not have been a greater honor, a more fitting price to pay for all his misdeeds?
It's a question he turns over and over in his mind as he watches the merrymaking from afar, standing back against a bannered wall, still armored in full judicer's plate; his broken helm, cracked open and apart by Vayne Solidor's shearing blade, is tucked away in the crook of his arm. His dark mood is perhaps evident at a distance, as he makes no attempt to mask it on his face. Despite what he's been told, he cannot bring himself to believe that any of this is truly meant for the likes of him. ]