Honestly, the blind man doubted that he had ever saved anyone. It had never felt like he had. "Saved" was simply too positive sounding, and he doubted that he had ever really had any positive effect on someone. His words had cold and defiant, and then they had become cold and apathetic, and then they had just become cold. And then they had just become empty. I've never saved anyone.
He said as much, but he doubted whoever it was that was speaking to him would understand that. Perhaps he had stopped someone from killing him -- that was what normally constituted as "saving," right? Perhaps he had guided him out of an unfortunate situation. Responsibility, circumstance. Saving implied that he had cared. He cared too much to say that he had cared.
It had probably been obligation,
he elaborated tonelessly. It was probably true. Obligation and responsibility and the weight of the world had dictated his actions for a long time. It was why he had stayed so long, probably, though he supposed it could also have been because he had no where else to be. But he had had a role to fulfill since a day that had been too early in coming. He had been an icon more than a person, a figurehead that had no emotions or feelings of his own. Given back a life to do with whatever he wished, he hadn't really changed much at all, except that now he had no one to pretend to be. Without that, he was nothing, just the emptiness that had always been there behind the mask.