[ Her eyes slide shut for the transition, only opening when she feels the cool air dust over her skin. Winter always marks a barren time, where food and warmth are scarce and all are left vulnerable to the elements. Death claims many in this time, especially in the everfrost of the West. What can snowy clouds, harsh enough to blur the horizon of the icy sea and sky, symbolize for an immortal who will never suffer exposure or death by it or famine? Surely, it would simply be yet another lovely season, immaculate and crystalline and white, for a god to experience without its frigid, unforgiving terrors. As if it were nothing but beautiful.
But there is no joy in this scene. No peace. A barren tree rises with tortuous, black boughs from a solitary isle as if struggling to reach for some shred of warmth from the sunless heavens above.
With her arms free, her hands slide over his forearms that are wrapped around her waist. The hold is wholly unnecessary, really. Even if he hadn't told her to touch anything, even if he hadn't decided to restrain her, he's both fast and strong enough to stop her in her tracks. Perhaps he's not solely holding her not for a reason of mistrust, then. Perhaps he is scared, in his own way.
"What good was my father's efforts to kill it all if they're just going to come back!"
... ]
You asked the wrong question earlier, I think.
[ What she knows of his past are bits and pieces. A sword, hellfire, a succession, and, apparently, a necessary act by his father to begin the process of destroying the root of his heart. It began with him, but she's seen time and time again how the son shuts down his emotions, how he continues to choose it-- to choose to suffer for a cause. And simultaneously, to choose to honor his father by doing so.
But duty and honor, she thinks, is not so strong a motivation to keep a man going for thirty thousand years in this manner. There's something else, perhaps, that's been there all along, still alive but merely buried. Perhaps it's piety. Perhaps it's remnants of familial love from a child to their parent, still unresolved. Whatever it is, she sees the results of it as plain as day: his is a tortured soul. ]
You and your father... your efforts are true. [ Her shoulders shudder, and her voice weakens. ] I see it here, I do. I see how much you've sacrificed. For all these years, it has not been in vain.
[ Her head dips, and she shuts her eyes to prevent them from misting. ] But in this present... is your suffering necessary, if they're going to come back?
no subject
But there is no joy in this scene. No peace. A barren tree rises with tortuous, black boughs from a solitary isle as if struggling to reach for some shred of warmth from the sunless heavens above.
With her arms free, her hands slide over his forearms that are wrapped around her waist. The hold is wholly unnecessary, really. Even if he hadn't told her to touch anything, even if he hadn't decided to restrain her, he's both fast and strong enough to stop her in her tracks. Perhaps he's not solely holding her not for a reason of mistrust, then. Perhaps he is scared, in his own way. ... ]
You asked the wrong question earlier, I think.
[ What she knows of his past are bits and pieces. A sword, hellfire, a succession, and, apparently, a necessary act by his father to begin the process of destroying the root of his heart. It began with him, but she's seen time and time again how the son shuts down his emotions, how he continues to choose it-- to choose to suffer for a cause. And simultaneously, to choose to honor his father by doing so.
But duty and honor, she thinks, is not so strong a motivation to keep a man going for thirty thousand years in this manner. There's something else, perhaps, that's been there all along, still alive but merely buried. Perhaps it's piety. Perhaps it's remnants of familial love from a child to their parent, still unresolved. Whatever it is, she sees the results of it as plain as day: his is a tortured soul. ]
You and your father... your efforts are true. [ Her shoulders shudder, and her voice weakens. ] I see it here, I do. I see how much you've sacrificed. For all these years, it has not been in vain.
[ Her head dips, and she shuts her eyes to prevent them from misting. ] But in this present... is your suffering necessary, if they're going to come back?