[It should be satisfying, that look, the strained relenting, but the open door—open, now that he's stopped trying to leave—something about the shape of it is wrong.
What does Flint want that he doesn't already know? There is no after. There is nothing for him but what is already familiar: relation and dismissal, turning over one another endlessly. There is violence. There are secrets. There are looks like the one he's just been given—and worse ones, should he allow anyone to see him. Adaptation. Becoming.
He comes to the door, carrying a light in his hand. Softly, lest his voice carry down the hall,]
There. You see? You've answered it yourself.
[A sound at waist level, like wet wood bursting in the fire, the minuscule creak and crackle of spreading ice. His fist opens; the community crystal falls to the floor, now only a stone.]
[The sting of it sits between the ribs—wounded pride or the distinct iron taste of failure. It would do him good to ignore it. To set it aside. If he is to send Leander a half a world away on the hope that he will be loyal to a thing he has no reason to love and a choice few for undoing it—if that is the only point in this, it would benefit him to make some last effort to reshape this before turning him loose. He might still in this last moment find a lie or some small touch that could do that service for him. He's quite certain of it.
But he'd see it now, wouldn't he? Notice, if he were to suddenly bend. No, he's made enough of a fool of himself and can't tolerate the idea of showing more of the thing.
So.
There are worse things to take to Tevinter than resentment. It's practically a kindness to prepare him in such a fashion.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
What does Flint want that he doesn't already know? There is no after. There is nothing for him but what is already familiar: relation and dismissal, turning over one another endlessly. There is violence. There are secrets. There are looks like the one he's just been given—and worse ones, should he allow anyone to see him. Adaptation. Becoming.
He comes to the door, carrying a light in his hand. Softly, lest his voice carry down the hall,]
There. You see? You've answered it yourself.
[A sound at waist level, like wet wood bursting in the fire, the minuscule creak and crackle of spreading ice. His fist opens; the community crystal falls to the floor, now only a stone.]
I'll send word after landfall.
no subject
But he'd see it now, wouldn't he? Notice, if he were to suddenly bend. No, he's made enough of a fool of himself and can't tolerate the idea of showing more of the thing.
So.
There are worse things to take to Tevinter than resentment. It's practically a kindness to prepare him in such a fashion.]
See that you do.