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He could like the things he liked if he would only grant himself permission—no other permission was required. If he limited his pleasure of simple things because of some external imposition of acceptable bliss, then he had let someone else build a ceiling over his life’s joy.
“Does it get easier?” she said when she returned. [Grief is never easy. But it gets softer around the edges, smoothed over like a river rock given time enough and water. It’s still a rock and it’s heavy and dangerous and capable of hurting you.
yes.
His willingness to do what the enemy wouldn’t might make him an excellent warrior, but it also made him a terrible person.
