Nothing is as clear as a fight: kill or be killed, strike or be stricken. And for millennia that's been an anchor for Drift, the simple, if amoral, rules. He wishes everything could be that simple, that clear. He was good at that. He wasn't good at....

...this.

There's a long moment where he wavers, words flying unspoken out of his open mouth, like butterflies, and then he closes the distance between them, still holding the Great Sword in one hand, even as he throws his arms around Wing. Because that, he hopes, is simple and clear.

He tips closer, his mouth wanting a kiss, before he draws back, as if stung. No, that's what had gotten him here in the first place.