[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.
[The noise he makes, clipped against the back of his teeth, might draw up imagery of an offended creature: a horse snorting as it yanks its head away from what irritates, a hound wrinkling its muzzle in distaste.
That veneer— in moments like these— of a twin so much better behaved, falls away with whispers of bitter truths.
But it is not aimed at her.]
Enough of your prying.
[Coarseness of his own voice (his true voice) cut short a beat later when he adds, soberly:]
I have work that need be done. Until you have need of me, I take my leave.
[ Later, she'll realize she probably deserves that. She went from I'll stop to I'll keep asking him in the span of a few heartbeats, and some part of her knew it probably wouldn't go well. They don't know each other. If he wants to spend all his time existing, without living at all, she should probably let him.
But she doesn't want to, even later. And right now, it feels like getting a door slammed in her face.
(On the upside, if he gets pissed off, it won't draw the attention of walkers--but on the downside, she feels stupid and frustrated and a little like she just told a secret and got laughter in return.) ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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That veneer— in moments like these— of a twin so much better behaved, falls away with whispers of bitter truths.
But it is not aimed at her.]
Enough of your prying.
[Coarseness of his own voice (his true voice) cut short a beat later when he adds, soberly:]
I have work that need be done. Until you have need of me, I take my leave.
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But she doesn't want to, even later. And right now, it feels like getting a door slammed in her face.
(On the upside, if he gets pissed off, it won't draw the attention of walkers--but on the downside, she feels stupid and frustrated and a little like she just told a secret and got laughter in return.) ]
Fine. [ Ugh. ] Enjoy your book, I guess.