He stayed quiet during her admonishment, only smiling a bit sadly in response. He couldn't promise he wouldn't get hurt again. He couldn't promise anything, and he hated it. When she closed in to kiss him he kissed warmly back, hugging her close with his unhurt arm. "I love you so much," he said when she broke, and he watched her go with a small sigh. He remained where he was for a moment longer before he stood and gathered his weapons and coat, carrying it all in his unhurt arm back to the room they shared.<br/><br/>It was night and day with the Runners and their attitude, though. Where before he had been met with glares, mutters, and suspicion, now he was greeted by smiles and nods. In one or two cases they even wanted to shake his hand and thank him personally for killing the giant. At first it was pleasant--to think that all he had to do for some gratitude was break his hand. But once he was alone and left to his thoughts, he realized how telling it was that the Runners viewed his achievement with such praise.<br/><br/>They weren't warriors. They weren't fighters. They were scouts, messengers, adept at hiding and surviving but not at fighting. They would need to be trained--at least some of them. Taught to fight, to stand against a larger enemy, to trade the instinct to run for the instinct to aim. And even then, would it be enough? He'd had a lifetime to learn it--could he teach a group of Runners to stand and fight with his conviction in a fraction of the time? He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, lost in thought.