“Either it's enough of a story or it isn't,” she says, still unsettled, “and I don't have anything else, if it needs more than that. I'm not part of that story.”
In a more specific way, now, than the way it had bothered her to be perceived as somehow the face of the Inquisition. A more personal discomfort with the idea of being made the face of something her interest in is, at best, a tolerated curiosity.
“If that's not useful, then it's not useful. I only wanted to know if it might be, so I didn't— do anything stupid or unhelpful.” Step on someone's toes thoughtlessly, as she's done before on more than one occasion. Step on the toes of an entire cause, inadvertently, through careless trampling or poor messaging. “If that's the story that it's important to spread, what else would they need to say afterwards?”
Here, at last, Flint takes up the razor from the edge of the basin and slips the soft leather cover free from its blade.
"You're the writer," is prompting, not an end point as his attention shifts to the mirror. Looking at her by way of the reflection as the razor is rinsed under the water's surface— "You tell me."
(What point is there in writing a thing down if it doesn't extend past its own margins?)
"Well, I'm a poet," she says, a bit blankly. "I wrote propaganda by accident, not on purpose, this isn't...I'm not a mage, I don't know what conversation they want to have," a little bewildered.
No, a great deal bewildered, and doing her best to keep up - well, nothing, then? is her instinct, but that feels immediately like the wrong answer. Not because it feels wrong, to her, but because that is so clearly not the conversation they're having,
and she doesn't, really, understand the conversation they're having. Dog-paddling vastly out of her depth, Flint doesn't need to tell her that her idea was foolish; that is becoming incredibly clear to her. Maybe it would be a good idea, if someone else had it, but that someone would probably have a better answer to everything else he's said, too.
"When I wrote out of the Inquisition, I was trying to write about things I could see and understand, so that other people could see and understand them," she says, finally. "I understand, I think, what Fiona did. I know how to talk about that. I thought there was value in that."
At the time. Less and less, the longer this conversation goes on.
"When I was doing it I did, anyway. I don't know, I thought maybe I was wrong about having been wrong, because you seemed so interested in it."
Now, if anything, it feels clearer that she was right to stop; that she was toying with something she has no business in.
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no subject
In a more specific way, now, than the way it had bothered her to be perceived as somehow the face of the Inquisition. A more personal discomfort with the idea of being made the face of something her interest in is, at best, a tolerated curiosity.
“If that's not useful, then it's not useful. I only wanted to know if it might be, so I didn't— do anything stupid or unhelpful.” Step on someone's toes thoughtlessly, as she's done before on more than one occasion. Step on the toes of an entire cause, inadvertently, through careless trampling or poor messaging. “If that's the story that it's important to spread, what else would they need to say afterwards?”
no subject
"You're the writer," is prompting, not an end point as his attention shifts to the mirror. Looking at her by way of the reflection as the razor is rinsed under the water's surface— "You tell me."
(What point is there in writing a thing down if it doesn't extend past its own margins?)
no subject
No, a great deal bewildered, and doing her best to keep up - well, nothing, then? is her instinct, but that feels immediately like the wrong answer. Not because it feels wrong, to her, but because that is so clearly not the conversation they're having,
and she doesn't, really, understand the conversation they're having. Dog-paddling vastly out of her depth, Flint doesn't need to tell her that her idea was foolish; that is becoming incredibly clear to her. Maybe it would be a good idea, if someone else had it, but that someone would probably have a better answer to everything else he's said, too.
"When I wrote out of the Inquisition, I was trying to write about things I could see and understand, so that other people could see and understand them," she says, finally. "I understand, I think, what Fiona did. I know how to talk about that. I thought there was value in that."
At the time. Less and less, the longer this conversation goes on.
"When I was doing it I did, anyway. I don't know, I thought maybe I was wrong about having been wrong, because you seemed so interested in it."
Now, if anything, it feels clearer that she was right to stop; that she was toying with something she has no business in.