๏ผ his gaze on her is intent for the span of a few heartbeats, and then it cuts away to an inkwell on his desk, his neat supply of brushes laid out. the question is not quite a fracture along the fault-lines of his privacy — he would have lied if he had truly been against her prying into it, but there are limits to his tolerance of such a thing. ๏ผ
Yes. I suppose it is natural that one dwell on their home, when they have been apart from it now nearer a year than not.
๏ผ eight months is a long time, when one comes from a place where the world can change in a moment. somehow, impossibly, he has crammed more living into these months than in the years that preceded them. ๏ผ
๏ผ he counts the extra month in badrock, even though the ximilia's calendars seemed not to. it is still, to him, time lived. ๏ผ
And I do not know. They do not appear to communicate clearly the level of — ๏ผ his mouth twists, unhappy. ๏ผ hm, 'progress' one has made. I will continue on this path until the end.
Whenever that end will be, because none of us have any way of knowing how much farther we've got to go. Or if our steps thus far have made any difference.
[ a pause and then a deep sigh before she plops herself down on his bed, only just narrowly missing banging her head against the metal wall beside it. ]
I don't. There is no reason to trust it until we have proof it will work.
๏ผ there's a slight pause, a sort of unspoken however that hovers in the air. then: ๏ผ
I am dead in my world. This time is already borrowed. If what we have been told is true, it is something gained. If it happens that this is all a false hope, I have lost nothing.
[ it chills her to hear it โ but more that he can speak of it so casually, than speaking it all. it should be reassuring, in a way. she's here to bring her foster family back from the dead after all... knowing that the ximilia has the ability to do it is...
something.
it's enough to make her finally give voice to the thing she's been too afraid to say out loud. ]
Do you ever wonder about staying here, even after it's all over?
๏ผ there's no hesitation — it is a thing said definitively, unconcerned. his goal has always been to finish his work here, and then return to jลdo. living holds no allure for him, nothing tethers him to this world. ๏ผ
For some, that may be an option. But I do not wish to be anywhere else than my home.
[ clarice, though. clarice hesitates. it's nice, she thinks. that even in death, he still has a place he can call home.
there's nothing waiting for her back in her world. ]
Yeah... [ there's a pointedly casual lilt to her tone — a stark contrast to the quiet and care her words had had just moments earlier. ] All this metal and humming's bound to get real old real fast.
๏ผ he gives her a sidelong glance, unfettered by open curiosity but nevertheless inquisitive. had she hoped his answer would be different?
(is hers?) ๏ผ
One becomes accustomed to it, I imagine, with time.
๏ผ in lieu of sitting idle, he rises to begin a pot of tea. something non-caffeinated, one of the things he has squirrelled away from viveca's supply drops. he never takes the whole of anything, but he does have a decent, well-organized supply of various things in one drawer, which he thumbs through idly. ๏ผ
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no subject
Yes. I suppose it is natural that one dwell on their home, when they have been apart from it now nearer a year than not.
๏ผ eight months is a long time, when one comes from a place where the world can change in a moment. somehow, impossibly, he has crammed more living into these months than in the years that preceded them. ๏ผ
no subject
[ there's an odd tone to clarice's voice โ incredulous, perhaps. maybe even denial. ]
How close are you to getting your regret undone?
no subject
๏ผ he counts the extra month in badrock, even though the ximilia's calendars seemed not to. it is still, to him, time lived. ๏ผ
And I do not know. They do not appear to communicate clearly the level of — ๏ผ his mouth twists, unhappy. ๏ผ hm, 'progress' one has made. I will continue on this path until the end.
no subject
[ a pause and then a deep sigh before she plops herself down on his bed, only just narrowly missing banging her head against the metal wall beside it. ]
What makes you trust any of this?
no subject
๏ผ there's a slight pause, a sort of unspoken however that hovers in the air. then: ๏ผ
I am dead in my world. This time is already borrowed. If what we have been told is true, it is something gained. If it happens that this is all a false hope, I have lost nothing.
no subject
something.
it's enough to make her finally give voice to the thing she's been too afraid to say out loud. ]
Do you ever wonder about staying here, even after it's all over?
cw: suicidality
๏ผ there's no hesitation — it is a thing said definitively, unconcerned. his goal has always been to finish his work here, and then return to jลdo. living holds no allure for him, nothing tethers him to this world. ๏ผ
For some, that may be an option. But I do not wish to be anywhere else than my home.
no subject
there's nothing waiting for her back in her world. ]
Yeah... [ there's a pointedly casual lilt to her tone — a stark contrast to the quiet and care her words had had just moments earlier. ] All this metal and humming's bound to get real old real fast.
no subject
(is hers?) ๏ผ
One becomes accustomed to it, I imagine, with time.
๏ผ in lieu of sitting idle, he rises to begin a pot of tea. something non-caffeinated, one of the things he has squirrelled away from viveca's supply drops. he never takes the whole of anything, but he does have a decent, well-organized supply of various things in one drawer, which he thumbs through idly. ๏ผ
Do you? Wonder about staying here.