Fried

Fried loved Fairy Tail, more than he would ever admit to anyone. He hid it well, only allowing the tiniest hint of symbolism to leak into the outside world, like smudges from a pen that wrote an epic in his heart.

His sword was one, and it quietly pleased him to think that no-one realised just how important it was to him. The blade with the Fairy hilt was the best channel he had ever found for his Rune Magic, the magic that had grown and flourished as he had learnt through the guild.

But the other sign had come before the blade, from back in the years when he still drew the runes by hand or with the metal stylus that his father had given him. His guild mark lay on his hand, his writing hand, and with every rune he wrote he remembered the guild he wrote them for.

And, later, he remembered the guild that had forgiven him when he had raised that hand against them.