[He lets his shoulders lift in an incremental shrug. The lump of a locket is a weight around his neck, the chain of a promise twined into the strands of his beacon-red soul. Maybe it's more like an anchor, tying him back to where he wants to be. Where he wishes he could be, or maybe just thinks he needs to be.]
[Maybe they don't need him, really, anymore. They never really did.]
[Maybe that was a lie, too, in its own way.]
[Two fingers go to the lump just beneath his shirt, where the locket in question dwells.]
no subject
[He lets his shoulders lift in an incremental shrug. The lump of a locket is a weight around his neck, the chain of a promise twined into the strands of his beacon-red soul. Maybe it's more like an anchor, tying him back to where he wants to be. Where he wishes he could be, or maybe just thinks he needs to be.]
[Maybe they don't need him, really, anymore. They never really did.]
[Maybe that was a lie, too, in its own way.]
[Two fingers go to the lump just beneath his shirt, where the locket in question dwells.]
That's not a bad thing.