If I had intended it to be one, do you truly believe I'd hand you any victory so easily? How insulting.
[ that small moment of levity from her aside — she doesn't have the words, truly, to frame what it is. acknowledgment, perhaps, that her pain is not the only entity to exist. something outside of herself that is easier to focus on than reopening her own old wounds. ]
You asked if it was terrible. Perhaps the more important question is whether it has to be, don't you think?
No, I suppose not. You enjoy the challenge far too much.
[ The two of them share a kind of grief that isn't easy to put into words, the impossibility of their existence... But the chance for recovery, to get stronger, better, too. He can appreciate that. ]
[ whether even that piece of her is hers alone, or whether it's a product of her training — well, she doesn't care to think about it. that's a path that leads nowhere, save toward madness and pointless self-flagellation. ]
If you can overcome your allergy to sunlight, I assure you — you can overcome your allergy toward optimism, no matter the terrible case of indigestion it gives you.
Whatever you are now, you've the overwhelming freedom to discover for yourself. Curiosity aside, you don't need to go searching for meaning in yourself through the eyes of others.
Fascinating. I wasn't aware you were in possession of a heart.
[ a little unapologetically harsh, perhaps — but it serves a reminder, too. just because her insides are made of softer stuff doesn't mean she lacks cutting edges, if he's going to choose to make a mockery of her gentler sentiments. a swipe of claws warrants the same back. ]
If you're so intent on misery and self-punishment, feel free to ask Lae'zel to act as your mirror instead. I'm sure she would revel in the opportunity.
[ He mocks because of discomfort, a little sharp in both bark and bite. Looking at himself and reflecting in any sort of positive way is not something that comes naturally to him, ever. ]
Hm, she does seem the type to pick out all of one's worst flaws, doesn't she?
[ which is a — concession, perhaps, in its own way. a reluctant acknowledgement that, yes, she's aware of his heart's existence; he is not nearly so opaque and mysterious as he wishes to be, but fragile and translucent like stained glass.
still. she's a sour patch kid. first they're sour, then they're sweet: the shadowheart disposition. ]
Undoubtedly, and almost impressively so. She's a masochist's dream. Suitable to the current mood you seem to be in.
[ No point flaunting your weaknesses to anyone who might be listening or overhearing, now, is there? They're both reticent to share, careful about what they confess; for different reasons, true enough, but all the same.
Gross. ]
I do not think we are either of one another's types.
I'm perfectly aware. Your masks must be impressive, to some.
[ the implication is clear, without emphasizing it with uncomfortable words — they don't have quite the same effect on her. call it a lifetime spent grappling in the shadows, trained to see shapes and silhouettes oft hidden in the dark — or just call it like calls to like, able to see the parts of herself in the others around her.
they all have their armor to wear. a discomforting fact she undercuts with the dry airiness of, ]
Because she would snap you underfoot like a delicate twig?
[ better bitter honesty than a sweeter lie, even if it tastes like vinegar on the tongue. lady shar's favor might be lost, now, but — those principles, and all of the foundations of her training they've been built upon, have yet to erode.
perhaps it's simply habit to want to lay bare the ugliness of hidden truths, from all those dutiful years of listening to those skewed teachings. or perhaps it's misguided curiosity, something akin to looking into a cracked mirror. whatever the case, she doesn't find herself flinching from the harshness of how astarion chooses to wield his honesty. ]
Most find illusions easier to stomach. Sometimes ...
[ she trails off. it revolts her to admit — sometimes, she wonders if it would be simpler if she were still steeped in misplaced faith. perhaps she might've still held onto the illusion of knowing herself, instead of feeling so — helplessly adrift.
it's not a sentiment she's keen to share. it feels like leading astarion's dagger to her softer parts and showing him where to strike. and so, ]
Never you mind. I only mean to say we've all clung to our personal illusions, haven't we? Painfully believable as they were.
[ Astarion had been on the other side of that often enough; crafting an illusion, the mirage of seduction, to do what was necessary for his Master. Growing away from that is a difficult process, shrugging off two centuries of shackles to try and become a person again rather than whatever he had been before.
All of them are being forced to come face to face with demons they'd rather ignore, and it has been difficult for each one. There is no denying it.
He doesn't want to talk in circles, to fall into the trap of it all, so instead - ]
[ growing, she thinks with a little gust of breath, is one word for it. trying to, at any rate, through the growing pains; like flowers left to try to survive under a desert sun. more's the point — ]
Would you look at that. A touch of optimism from you, and you didn't combust into unholy flame.
It appears you're capable of it, after all.
[ checkmate. it's the saddest checkmate ever, derived from the most tragic circumstances possible, but — a proven point is a proven point. small victories. ]
[ It's not as if their situations could get worse, surely? Tadpoles, the ever present threat of danger, the fear of never being able to overcome anything... Well, he can imagine fewer worse things. ]
Not this time, but if I try it again I'm sure it'll be the end of me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ that small moment of levity from her aside — she doesn't have the words, truly, to frame what it is. acknowledgment, perhaps, that her pain is not the only entity to exist. something outside of herself that is easier to focus on than reopening her own old wounds. ]
You asked if it was terrible. Perhaps the more important question is whether it has to be, don't you think?
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[ The two of them share a kind of grief that isn't easy to put into words, the impossibility of their existence... But the chance for recovery, to get stronger, better, too. He can appreciate that. ]
Perhaps, if we're being hideously optimistic.
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[ whether even that piece of her is hers alone, or whether it's a product of her training — well, she doesn't care to think about it. that's a path that leads nowhere, save toward madness and pointless self-flagellation. ]
If you can overcome your allergy to sunlight, I assure you — you can overcome your allergy toward optimism, no matter the terrible case of indigestion it gives you.
Whatever you are now, you've the overwhelming freedom to discover for yourself. Curiosity aside, you don't need to go searching for meaning in yourself through the eyes of others.
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[ The threat of the ritual is ever present, but Astarion is driven by fear and want at the moment, not sensibility. ]
How cute, Shadowheart. Should I look for meaning in myself? Search my own heart and be stronger for it?
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[ a little unapologetically harsh, perhaps — but it serves a reminder, too. just because her insides are made of softer stuff doesn't mean she lacks cutting edges, if he's going to choose to make a mockery of her gentler sentiments. a swipe of claws warrants the same back. ]
If you're so intent on misery and self-punishment, feel free to ask Lae'zel to act as your mirror instead. I'm sure she would revel in the opportunity.
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[ He mocks because of discomfort, a little sharp in both bark and bite. Looking at himself and reflecting in any sort of positive way is not something that comes naturally to him, ever. ]
Hm, she does seem the type to pick out all of one's worst flaws, doesn't she?
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[ which is a — concession, perhaps, in its own way. a reluctant acknowledgement that, yes, she's aware of his heart's existence; he is not nearly so opaque and mysterious as he wishes to be, but fragile and translucent like stained glass.
still. she's a sour patch kid. first they're sour, then they're sweet: the shadowheart disposition. ]
Undoubtedly, and almost impressively so. She's a masochist's dream. Suitable to the current mood you seem to be in.
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[ No point flaunting your weaknesses to anyone who might be listening or overhearing, now, is there? They're both reticent to share, careful about what they confess; for different reasons, true enough, but all the same.
Gross. ]
I do not think we are either of one another's types.
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[ the implication is clear, without emphasizing it with uncomfortable words — they don't have quite the same effect on her. call it a lifetime spent grappling in the shadows, trained to see shapes and silhouettes oft hidden in the dark — or just call it like calls to like, able to see the parts of herself in the others around her.
they all have their armor to wear. a discomforting fact she undercuts with the dry airiness of, ]
Because she would snap you underfoot like a delicate twig?
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[ Ah, the bitterness of honesty.
Perhaps they are similar enough to understand one another, but not so similar that they can stand in one another's shoes. It'll do, truly. ]
I would be dust in moments.
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perhaps it's simply habit to want to lay bare the ugliness of hidden truths, from all those dutiful years of listening to those skewed teachings. or perhaps it's misguided curiosity, something akin to looking into a cracked mirror. whatever the case, she doesn't find herself flinching from the harshness of how astarion chooses to wield his honesty. ]
Most find illusions easier to stomach. Sometimes ...
[ she trails off. it revolts her to admit — sometimes, she wonders if it would be simpler if she were still steeped in misplaced faith. perhaps she might've still held onto the illusion of knowing herself, instead of feeling so — helplessly adrift.
it's not a sentiment she's keen to share. it feels like leading astarion's dagger to her softer parts and showing him where to strike. and so, ]
Never you mind. I only mean to say we've all clung to our personal illusions, haven't we? Painfully believable as they were.
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[ Astarion had been on the other side of that often enough; crafting an illusion, the mirage of seduction, to do what was necessary for his Master. Growing away from that is a difficult process, shrugging off two centuries of shackles to try and become a person again rather than whatever he had been before.
All of them are being forced to come face to face with demons they'd rather ignore, and it has been difficult for each one. There is no denying it.
He doesn't want to talk in circles, to fall into the trap of it all, so instead - ]
And now we are growing.
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Would you look at that. A touch of optimism from you, and you didn't combust into unholy flame.
It appears you're capable of it, after all.
[ checkmate. it's the saddest checkmate ever, derived from the most tragic circumstances possible, but — a proven point is a proven point. small victories. ]
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Not this time, but if I try it again I'm sure it'll be the end of me.
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[ a recovering goth girl and vampire spawn walk into a camp of weirdos. the humor is predictably morbid. ]
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[ a message doesn't need to be audible to imagine the bone-dry sarcasm behind it, as it turns out. ]
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