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.
[ And...well, she can't really argue with that. She doesn't want to. But all she can think of, hearing him, is those awful days she spent lying in bed after they shot her mother, fearful that being alive just meant risking a death as awful as the one she'd just seen.
But he's not doing that. He's probably fine. And even if he sounds like he's not (and he sounds like he's really, really not), Beth's not really sure what to say to change that. The feeling--of looking at somebody and seeing herself, and not knowing them well enough to make them see it, too--is still wordless, formless. She doesn't have an elevator shaft to dangle her legs in while she tries to decide what to do about it. ]
...Okay.
[ She keeps wanting to ask more. What did you do before you went to bed at night? What did you do when there was nothing to fight? But for now, she doesn't. ]
They are those narrow shapes fashioned between pain of death and overwhelming loss; you will see them, if you look. [Perhaps she's never known true comfort: it isn't so rare a thing as it should be, he understands this well enough after an eternity spent keeping watch over the universe and its grand injustices.
He knew of it before, in life. In Ivalice itself, so cruelly wrought.]
Begin with games, I think. And your opera. And if you still lack for knowledge, I will show you.
[ It's possible to forget that all he wants to do is fight, at least for a moment or two at a time. When he talks like this, he sounds like he could do anything, if he just listened to himself and tried.
Beth wonders what kind of place he came from, that this is who he is. She doesn't ask. ]
I know how to find good things. [ Not teasing, not indignant. Just kind of sad. But mostly true. (Mostly.) She's quiet just a breath too long, and then-- ] I wasn't sure if you still did.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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But he's not doing that. He's probably fine. And even if he sounds like he's not (and he sounds like he's really, really not), Beth's not really sure what to say to change that. The feeling--of looking at somebody and seeing herself, and not knowing them well enough to make them see it, too--is still wordless, formless. She doesn't have an elevator shaft to dangle her legs in while she tries to decide what to do about it. ]
...Okay.
[ She keeps wanting to ask more. What did you do before you went to bed at night? What did you do when there was nothing to fight? But for now, she doesn't. ]
How do you know what's good in the world?
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They are those narrow shapes fashioned between pain of death and overwhelming loss; you will see them, if you look. [Perhaps she's never known true comfort: it isn't so rare a thing as it should be, he understands this well enough after an eternity spent keeping watch over the universe and its grand injustices.
He knew of it before, in life. In Ivalice itself, so cruelly wrought.]
Begin with games, I think. And your opera. And if you still lack for knowledge, I will show you.
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Beth wonders what kind of place he came from, that this is who he is. She doesn't ask. ]
I know how to find good things. [ Not teasing, not indignant. Just kind of sad. But mostly true. (Mostly.) She's quiet just a breath too long, and then-- ] I wasn't sure if you still did.
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