You may have been bedfellows with tragedy and suffering, but that does not m-mean you must bear their weight alone any longer. Whatever you faced in the past, here and now, you've the power to acquaint yourself with other c-courses, if you wish. I do not mean to sway you. I only offer my shoulders to share your burdens.
[ And as for everything else, well- he does not see how the slaying of innocents in the name of clemency, of the star's safety, needs its hairs split. It is what it is, tragedy they should do all in their power to avoid. He does not think himself a shepherd, either. It is a role he could pantomime, certainly, briefly, just like any mask he's chosen to wear. But he is not Aymeric or the Exarch. He is not Merylwyb or Matoya. Where has he guided anyone, save onto a battlefield? He cannot go six bells without drawing Emet-Selch into argument. The scions knew him best for nodding and killing. It is his combat prowess, his willingness to fight and die that stirs the masses, not his words, not his ideas.
At a loss, but unwilling to allow himself the luxury of moping, Viktor busies his hands with food he no longer has the appetite for, but nevertheless knows he should eat, cream cheese, fish, egg, and onion, settled neatly on a slice of bread. Emet-Selch seems halfway to surrendering to the worst possible outcome, already, and Viktor knows that he cannot allow the both of them to succumb to numbness. For a blessing, his infernal ears remain pert, alert, despite their itching desire to droop. Viktor forces himself to take a bite of his assembled toasty - and it is surprisingly good. The fish, smoky and salty, the eggs, fluffy, the onion, sharp. He makes a note to bring the combination up back at the Wandering Stairs.
And once he's chewed and swallowed, he sets the bread back down and begins to speak again. ]
Grim potentials lay before us, aye, but mustn't you first learn more before we can make plans? Once you have, tell me what you need of me and it will be done.
[ To stop himself from fidgeting, Viktor wraps both hands around his still too hot teacup. It does little good. His fingers right away set to tapping a nervous nonsense rhythm, but as he glances up to meet Emet-Selch's eye once more, his voice is steady, soft, warm. ]
If tragedy is unavoidable and all you desire in its wake is quiet... it will be yours, my love.
no subject
[ And as for everything else, well- he does not see how the slaying of innocents in the name of clemency, of the star's safety, needs its hairs split. It is what it is, tragedy they should do all in their power to avoid. He does not think himself a shepherd, either. It is a role he could pantomime, certainly, briefly, just like any mask he's chosen to wear. But he is not Aymeric or the Exarch. He is not Merylwyb or Matoya. Where has he guided anyone, save onto a battlefield? He cannot go six bells without drawing Emet-Selch into argument. The scions knew him best for nodding and killing. It is his combat prowess, his willingness to fight and die that stirs the masses, not his words, not his ideas.
At a loss, but unwilling to allow himself the luxury of moping, Viktor busies his hands with food he no longer has the appetite for, but nevertheless knows he should eat, cream cheese, fish, egg, and onion, settled neatly on a slice of bread. Emet-Selch seems halfway to surrendering to the worst possible outcome, already, and Viktor knows that he cannot allow the both of them to succumb to numbness. For a blessing, his infernal ears remain pert, alert, despite their itching desire to droop. Viktor forces himself to take a bite of his assembled toasty - and it is surprisingly good. The fish, smoky and salty, the eggs, fluffy, the onion, sharp. He makes a note to bring the combination up back at the Wandering Stairs.
And once he's chewed and swallowed, he sets the bread back down and begins to speak again. ]
Grim potentials lay before us, aye, but mustn't you first learn more before we can make plans? Once you have, tell me what you need of me and it will be done.
[ To stop himself from fidgeting, Viktor wraps both hands around his still too hot teacup. It does little good. His fingers right away set to tapping a nervous nonsense rhythm, but as he glances up to meet Emet-Selch's eye once more, his voice is steady, soft, warm. ]
If tragedy is unavoidable and all you desire in its wake is quiet... it will be yours, my love.