[ Spoken confidently, belied by the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It's one thing to know one's servitude is ill-won; it's another thing entirely to realize it so late, and to still be blind to so much of one's former life on top of it. He understands that, to some extent, that's why she's been at more of a remove than the rest of their fellows at camp: one cannot freely offer a part of oneself that's gone missing. ]
And besides, better miserable together than miserable alone.
[ With that, he takes a seat by the water, partially to try to breeze by the rest of what he perceives as gratefulness (terrifying), partially to get himself back on relatively steady footing and avoid the directness of her gaze. (He speaks as he always does, half with his hands and the sway of his frame, but perhaps with a little less ease than he usually might, a symptom of both attempted truthfulness and the resultant severe discomfort.)
She reminds him of the sun, of the light. For all that Shar had kept her in the darkness, her facility for light, for healing, seems innate. The role of a cleric — to protect, guide, and heal — is inconceivable to him, as had been, for a long time, the chance to once again stand underneath the open sun. He doesn't know if it's meant for him, as much as he may covet it. ]
Or, I suppose, miserable you, delightful me.
[ A more believable lie, as requested, as buoyed by his typical displays of ego, no matter how facile they might be. Gods know he's not a happy creature, per se, nor will he ever feel totally comfortable in his own skin so long as Cazador still lives, but there'll be a time and a place for that. ]
no subject
[ Spoken confidently, belied by the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It's one thing to know one's servitude is ill-won; it's another thing entirely to realize it so late, and to still be blind to so much of one's former life on top of it. He understands that, to some extent, that's why she's been at more of a remove than the rest of their fellows at camp: one cannot freely offer a part of oneself that's gone missing. ]
And besides, better miserable together than miserable alone.
[ With that, he takes a seat by the water, partially to try to breeze by the rest of what he perceives as gratefulness (terrifying), partially to get himself back on relatively steady footing and avoid the directness of her gaze. (He speaks as he always does, half with his hands and the sway of his frame, but perhaps with a little less ease than he usually might, a symptom of both attempted truthfulness and the resultant severe discomfort.)
She reminds him of the sun, of the light. For all that Shar had kept her in the darkness, her facility for light, for healing, seems innate. The role of a cleric — to protect, guide, and heal — is inconceivable to him, as had been, for a long time, the chance to once again stand underneath the open sun. He doesn't know if it's meant for him, as much as he may covet it. ]
Or, I suppose, miserable you, delightful me.
[ A more believable lie, as requested, as buoyed by his typical displays of ego, no matter how facile they might be. Gods know he's not a happy creature, per se, nor will he ever feel totally comfortable in his own skin so long as Cazador still lives, but there'll be a time and a place for that. ]