A pulse.
Beating at the center of his world.
Paralysis slowly faded away, replacing itself with a tingling sensation. Thousands of miniscule needles, repeatedly stabbing through his arm as blood resumed its coursing through his veins.
The thief sat up, still groggy, as the memories of a fortnight ago washed over him and assaulted his unwilling consciousness. It was still dark, the only source of light being the pale blue orb hanging in the sky above, though even in the ill lighting, the fight played out before his golden eyes in perfect quality. Micaiah's tearful, angry face shimmered before him, and he pushed it away bitterly. He did not want to think about it, not for as long as he could hold it off.
Sothe, now massaging his left arm, hunched over. It hadn't taken long for him to get used to the comfortable life of 'normal' folk. In fact, just how easily he had taken to his new life unnerved him somewhat, for he valued the survival instinct borne from his time as a rogue, even if the life itself had been...well, not the most glamorous or comfortable.
But it wasn't meant to be. He was not meant for a life of comfort and relaxation. He was a thief, through and through.
Micaiah failed to understand that. Failed to understand that their marriage was a folly, and that their relationship had never been based on a mutual romantic attraction. It just wasn't designed to work that way for them.
So he left. Daein, Begnion, Gallia - it didn't matter. There was someone he needed to find, a man who was very important to him...a man who was, truly, his life. Someone he would travel to the ends of the earth to find.
Volke Forukaza was an Assassin, one of the best.
He was also Sothe's old flame.
Sothe was almost sure that he was close to catching hold of his elusive prey - it seemed as though Volke had no desire to be found, as the usual methods of contacting him didn't work. So, following a trail of rumors and whispers, Sothe carved his way through the countryside in an attempt to find his old lover.
It had been no easy task, and in some ways, it had been more stressful than even the war. When last he and Volke had parted, it hadn't been on good terms.
Guilt riddled the young man like a volley of poisoned arrows as he once again unwillingly recalled a moment he would rather forget. The moment when he, Sothe, had turned his back on Volke.
Assassins often go their whole lives without opening up to anyone, for letting down their guard is the deadliest thing they can possibly do. Should one have your heart, they also have you, completely and utterly. Yet Volke had let down his guard, against his better judgement, and now...
Now Sothe could only pray that Volke would forgive him.