[ his words tiptoe uncomfortably close to absolution. the upward angle of his gaze means he misses the fraught crease between her brows. it is, perhaps, the greatest boon he could give her. it's also, shadowheart decides, not his to offer — if it can be offered at all. how can one even begin to ask forgiveness for sins they can't recall, from faces they can't remember? what right does she then have to believe him, to let herself be soothed by it?
she shifts to nestle quietly in the grass. for comfort's sake, she draws his hand closer, lets their joined fingers pillow underneath her cheek. for such warmth he provides, he is contrastingly chilled to the touch, brushing her skin like a cool breeze on a balmy day. ]
Didn't I?
[ go looking for it, at least in the end? it's as rhetorical as it isn't — and easier to speak into the air, once she lets her eyes seal closed. a bit of irony, she supposes, that her first compulsion is to find comfort in the darkness that accompanies the back of her eyelids, for how she's walked through this life with them closed to the truth. ]
Viconia is a different breed of monster, [ she says, carefully. the implication still lurks beneath: than cazador. ] Even now, I struggle to call her one. She was my mother, Lady Shar my beacon. Every punishment was a vital lesson taught. Every ounce of pain was a test to overcome.
[ there's a point to be made, there. the faint, blurred image astarion has painted of cazador has been a cruel one — a master without the pretense of love, of kindness. a leech, she thinks, in every manner the word can possibly be applied. astarion's obedience had been forcibly compelled, at odds with how willingly she had emptied herself into her faith, in the belief she would be better for it. (is it worse, she wonders, to feel the collar tightening around your throat — or to be oblivious to it, even as it strangles and pulls?)
she can't reconcile it: the reality of being bent and broken to another's liking, her role in it, where her responsibility and adjoining guilt begins and ends. the warring twist to her expression showcases as much, as her forehead crumples. ]
Fool I was, I convinced myself it was proof she cared for me. [ a struggling pause. ] Perhaps she did, in the way one cares to polish a blade.
no subject
she shifts to nestle quietly in the grass. for comfort's sake, she draws his hand closer, lets their joined fingers pillow underneath her cheek. for such warmth he provides, he is contrastingly chilled to the touch, brushing her skin like a cool breeze on a balmy day. ]
Didn't I?
[ go looking for it, at least in the end? it's as rhetorical as it isn't — and easier to speak into the air, once she lets her eyes seal closed. a bit of irony, she supposes, that her first compulsion is to find comfort in the darkness that accompanies the back of her eyelids, for how she's walked through this life with them closed to the truth. ]
Viconia is a different breed of monster, [ she says, carefully. the implication still lurks beneath: than cazador. ] Even now, I struggle to call her one. She was my mother, Lady Shar my beacon. Every punishment was a vital lesson taught. Every ounce of pain was a test to overcome.
[ there's a point to be made, there. the faint, blurred image astarion has painted of cazador has been a cruel one — a master without the pretense of love, of kindness. a leech, she thinks, in every manner the word can possibly be applied. astarion's obedience had been forcibly compelled, at odds with how willingly she had emptied herself into her faith, in the belief she would be better for it. (is it worse, she wonders, to feel the collar tightening around your throat — or to be oblivious to it, even as it strangles and pulls?)
she can't reconcile it: the reality of being bent and broken to another's liking, her role in it, where her responsibility and adjoining guilt begins and ends. the warring twist to her expression showcases as much, as her forehead crumples. ]
Fool I was, I convinced myself it was proof she cared for me. [ a struggling pause. ] Perhaps she did, in the way one cares to polish a blade.