Some people like talking even less than you. Especially when you can't get any distance.
[ My friend, Daryl-- is how she wants to go on, but the thought of talking about people she'll never see again makes her chest feel like it's folding in on itself. And talking about Daryl in particular, trying to get across all of him without betraying his trust--it just doesn't seem possible. ]
[There is something to be said of old dogs and new tricks. When the will of experience leaves you, little else rises in its place— he cannot claim to have either want or need of practice, he cannot claim to have much at all here, beyond a desire to prove usefulness one last time.
But of course, bright as the spark of her hope seems to be, she need not know this.]
...Perhaps.
Unfortunately I have little time to spare between assigned work and necessary reports. [This? This is how he gracefully declines opportunity for change.]
I cannot say what constitutes decency or enjoyment here.
[No, he doesn’t like it.]
The matter of willful rebellion is one I am already familiar with— but there is a difference between man against man, and man against the cruelties of gods.
If this is Commander Flint’s viewpoint, I do not share it.
You could get a different hobby, if you wanted to. [ That still seems like the safer approach. ] They have a lot to do around here. Once I'm allowed to leave the Gallows, I'm going to the opera.
[And here he thought he was being perfectly discreet. Alas.]
If you are set on finding ways to enjoy yourself [he says it like it’s a poor habit, something to do with tone and unmasked discomfort.] I ought bring you to meet with Jone of Denerim and Benedict Artemaeus.
[ She doesn't hear his answer so much as feel its weight against her sternum, that crushing familiarity of I have been dead. A long time, a short time--who knows? If you aren't alive, you can't tell. I have been dead. I have been dead.
She hasn't told anyone since she arrived and found a bullet scar under her chin. Wysteria and Ellis know, because they were there. If she can help it, no one else will ever know. She's kept a scarf around her throat since she found one, cleaned the blood out of her hair, and steadfastly avoided touching the places scalp and bone knit themselves back together after being blown apart. But if she doesn't say anything now, Gabranth won't understand any of it. He sounds like he really believes what he's saying, and Beth knows he's wrong. He has to be.
If he's right, then what's the point of anything?
When she speaks again, long enough after that he might well have gone back to his book, the teasing's long gone from her voice. What comes out is soft: quiet, yes, but the tentative gentleness of someone aware they've got their fingertips on a wound. ]
You're not the only one. [ She swallows. ] And you aren't dead here. It doesn't have to be like...like where you came from.
He doesn’t want to remember what it is, to laugh or to care or crave comfort in moments that are only so brief as flickers of a dying light. Eternity is long and anguish is a constant, and he would see others warned away from his own destiny. That is— if he craves anything at all— the only thing left for him to strive towards.
So in death, they may be alike. But in purpose here...]
I have been here long enough to know now that time has not resumed for me.
And I am weary.
[He pauses, there, letting his eyes drift shut in time with his own breathing. Something to reset him.]
If I desire anything now, it is to ensure what good remains in this world carries on uninterrupted.
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[A pause, his voice lighter than usual regardless:]
Though if you believe my efforts sufficient, I shudder to think of what contact with mankind you've held previously.
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Some people like talking even less than you. Especially when you can't get any distance.
[ My friend, Daryl-- is how she wants to go on, but the thought of talking about people she'll never see again makes her chest feel like it's folding in on itself. And talking about Daryl in particular, trying to get across all of him without betraying his trust--it just doesn't seem possible. ]
Maybe you just need practice.
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But of course, bright as the spark of her hope seems to be, she need not know this.]
...Perhaps.
Unfortunately I have little time to spare between assigned work and necessary reports. [This? This is how he gracefully declines opportunity for change.]
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[ A little disappointed--maybe. Just kind of quiet again, that yeah. And then a little silence, and then: ]
What're you working on now?
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Commander Flint claims he holds little use for a man without hobbies. I disagree, but I've no right to refute his claims, and as such...
[Well, here we are, in essence.]
He has granted me a book, supposedly in the hopes that it might enlighten me.
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[ She's guessing not, considering he's talking to her instead of reading it, but still. ]
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[No, he doesn’t like it.]
The matter of willful rebellion is one I am already familiar with— but there is a difference between man against man, and man against the cruelties of gods.
If this is Commander Flint’s viewpoint, I do not share it.
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[ Commander Flint, she knows, is the head of Forces, but beyond that, he's a mystery to her. An intense mystery, now. ]
Maybe you could have a different hobby. What'd you do at home?
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There was a space for it, once. More. Erased so long ago that it might as well be little more than dust, alongside the life of its people.
He inhales slowly, lets the sound serve as signal.]
That is it.
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You could get a different hobby, if you wanted to. [ That still seems like the safer approach. ] They have a lot to do around here. Once I'm allowed to leave the Gallows, I'm going to the opera.
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[Unbearable is the word that comes to mind, but he catches it against the back of his teeth with a low click of his tongue.]
As though it might prove to be a pleasant opportunity for you.
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You can say it sounds boring.
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Was I so obvious?
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If you are set on finding ways to enjoy yourself [he says it like it’s a poor habit, something to do with tone and unmasked discomfort.] I ought bring you to meet with Jone of Denerim and Benedict Artemaeus.
They have been fond of games, as of late.
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What kind of games?
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[He hadn't cared enough to ask, and so can only offer up a meager description by way of what he remembers in passing:]
A ball, a divider, two sculls.
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[ She's not sure what sculls are, so it's hard to picture. ]
Do you play, too?
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[Shocking.]
I care nothing for sport.
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...they do not return.
nb: gunshot wound descriptions here
She hasn't told anyone since she arrived and found a bullet scar under her chin. Wysteria and Ellis know, because they were there. If she can help it, no one else will ever know. She's kept a scarf around her throat since she found one, cleaned the blood out of her hair, and steadfastly avoided touching the places scalp and bone knit themselves back together after being blown apart. But if she doesn't say anything now, Gabranth won't understand any of it. He sounds like he really believes what he's saying, and Beth knows he's wrong. He has to be.
If he's right, then what's the point of anything?
When she speaks again, long enough after that he might well have gone back to his book, the teasing's long gone from her voice. What comes out is soft: quiet, yes, but the tentative gentleness of someone aware they've got their fingertips on a wound. ]
You're not the only one. [ She swallows. ] And you aren't dead here. It doesn't have to be like...like where you came from.
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It’s that he doesn’t want it to be.
He doesn’t want to remember what it is, to laugh or to care or crave comfort in moments that are only so brief as flickers of a dying light. Eternity is long and anguish is a constant, and he would see others warned away from his own destiny. That is— if he craves anything at all— the only thing left for him to strive towards.
So in death, they may be alike. But in purpose here...]
I have been here long enough to know now that time has not resumed for me.
And I am weary.
[He pauses, there, letting his eyes drift shut in time with his own breathing. Something to reset him.]
If I desire anything now, it is to ensure what good remains in this world carries on uninterrupted.
I would find contentment in that.
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