"I'm not much for politics. All I do is live by my principles, my sword, and my friends. What can I say? I won't change who I am, even if it means fighting you."
These words were not his own, and yet they seemed so familiar to him. Like so many others this fine day, Richard was dreaming, his scattered filled with war and epic battles. He was a great warrior, someone both respected and feared by the enemy. He was big here, tougher, a part of something more grand that Richard could ever imagine. These battles were numerous-- practically countless-- but this one had a slight distinction. In the skies above approached storm clouds as back as night, lightning and hail raining down terribly in their wake. A line was being cut across the battlefield, the warriors being divided and destroyed by this anomaly. It wasn't long before it came upon Richard, and he felt his entire body begin to burn. A pain unlike he could ever imagine blossomed in his chest, causing him to scream and shout.
"Wanting to do something that matters is enough. Sometimes, how you feel is more important than how you act."
Waking with a fright, Richard pushed back against his chair, sending it flying out from underneath him. It rolled across the wooden floor, Richard falling forward and slamming his head against the table. Swearing, he scrambled to get on to his feet, his hands reaching up toward the desk and pulling the various books and papers down to the floor. He groaned, before simply collapsed on to the desk, resting his head on one of the open books. There he waited, hoping no one had heard his clumsy commotion. Ambrosia was downstairs, and Chandler was likely too involved in his games, so Richard felt he was in the clear. He raised his head to stare at the book he had open-- the dictionary. His eyes caught on one word in particular: repatriate.
To return to one's own country.
Great.
After hastily tidying up his study, Richard moved downstairs, taking a quick stop in the kitchen to grab he leftovers of the meal that had put him to sleep in the first place. He had always been one to eat a lot. When he heard talking in the next room over, he quickly stuffed the rest of the chicken sandwich he'd made into his mouth. Then, standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, he watched Chandler run out the door. Ambrosia had tried to talk to him, but Chandler did as Chandler does, and left without so much as two sentences said to his mother. When she sat back down, Richard quietly cleared his throat to get her attention, a small smile lighting up his face. Rubbing at his blue hair, he moved to lean against the arm rest of the chair Ambrosia was sitting in. "Nothing new, then?" he said, trying to make a joke of the moment. At the look on his wife's face Richard realized jokes were not what would cheer her up. He sighed and sat on the arm rest, looking down on her. "Today was great, by the way. Loved the watch. Loved the dinner. Chandler loved it too."
