The few people that have seen the scar left behind by Sparhawk's sword have all known better than to gape and stare at it. They've known better than to draw attention to it, to comment on it, to react to the physical evidence that not a full year ago he died. Not a full year ago, by his reckoning, he lay on the floor of a temple now gone as well, breathed what he'd thought would be his last under Sephrenia's blessing and expired.

It's not polite. It's not done. It's not fair.

He measures his memory in inches and an ache that pain-relief hasn't helped. He measures it in how clear the feeling of blood seeping out of his body and breath failing him is when he speaks with Sephrenia or with Sparhawk. He measures it in absolute silence; in the understanding that grief is a right of the wronged and redemption of the penitent. He fills his time with plans and productivity, gestures, with life after death that is, he finds with some irony, so much the better than what he'd led beforehand.

His reflection never changes. Eventually, he knows, other people will realize too that it likely never will. He doesn't need to wait that long for it to start to grate; it isn't that he's ungrateful--God forbid--and yet.

So he examines himself. It's almost funny to see a face from ten years or so prior; he looks younger than he knows he is, puts it down to some quirk of resurrection. Most if not all of the scars he knows should be there are; he finds himself wondering idly if he'll ever gain new ones.

It's an easy shift from impassive silence to sudden motion and with almost whole disconnection he doesn't truly feel it when his expertly thrown fist impacts, cracking and smashing the mirror in front of him. His shirt hangs loose, open, and he holds his hands against the wood of the table below and remains very, very still.

What about your character drew you in as a writer; what is it that you want to explore with them?
( will obviously contain spoilers for his canon. )