If one counts purely by duration, then most of John's remembered life has been spent in Hell. The Dark World. But surely time spent there doesn't count as life, not in the way mortals understand it— so by any reasonable mortal metric, most of John's life has been spent here, in Revan. And in a dim underground pit, trapped within the eyes and hand and foot of a man who hated him.
It was reasonable for Arthur to hate him, at the time. And Arthur did... did try to die for him, at the end, in a way. So he can't have hated John entirely. They were still friends. Still: for much of that long stretch, John had little in the way of warmth of pleasure. The highlight of his day, the measure by which he privately kept time, was when Arthur recounted his dreams.
Clear blue skies. A gull wheeling, white and serene, far above. The glitter of the light on the ocean, just past the vibrancy of the beach. He has dwelt on that secondhand vision so long he knows it better than many of his own memories.
But he'd never imagined the salt tang in the air. The sound of the waves, a layered rhythmic roar. The way it all glitters. He stands entranced on the shoreline, gazing out breathless upon it all.
wildcard
It was reasonable for Arthur to hate him, at the time. And Arthur did... did try to die for him, at the end, in a way. So he can't have hated John entirely. They were still friends. Still: for much of that long stretch, John had little in the way of warmth of pleasure. The highlight of his day, the measure by which he privately kept time, was when Arthur recounted his dreams.
Clear blue skies. A gull wheeling, white and serene, far above. The glitter of the light on the ocean, just past the vibrancy of the beach. He has dwelt on that secondhand vision so long he knows it better than many of his own memories.
But he'd never imagined the salt tang in the air. The sound of the waves, a layered rhythmic roar. The way it all glitters. He stands entranced on the shoreline, gazing out breathless upon it all.