Hand him a list of rules, and he’ll accept it. He’ll read it carefully. He’ll examine the paper. He’ll roll it up and use it to start the most excellent orange-flamed, dancing bonfire you’ve seen this side of the sun (which firmly goes against rule number seven…)
He doesn’t follow rules.
Not since he was a farm boy in the back waters, all mischief and smirks on land too big to keep him from running at the full stretch of his stride. Not under a government with too many rules that hold too many good people down in rough dirt. Not on a battlefield where the smart soldiers keep quiet, take careful shots, and he runs in shouting and swinging. Not after the war, when he’d rather keep swinging. When he gets a ship and a crew and jobs that keep him out of the way, legal, illegal, or some criminally brilliant mix of the two.
Not even for gravity. Cause that sky is his, and you can’t take it away from him.
But he’ll follow a few laws, unbreakable things that he’d shatter himself against before he’d put a dent in their lines: Like never failing to start a bar fight on that one particular day. Like never being stupid, unless its his own gallant kind of stupid. Like never standing by when motion is the hardest, rightest thing.
Like never selling out one of his own, however shining the price. Like never shooting a man who wasn’t awake, armed, and facing him. Like never taking what a man can’t afford to lose, never robbing the desperate and the damaged.
Like never being anything less, steeped in sour defeat, than he had hoped to be in sweetest victory.
Because just because it was lost, doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth every battle he fought for it, plus one more.