[He doesn't look horrified at her story. How many caged animals has he helped free, then place a dagger in their hands and told them they were dangerous? No, it sounds like those poachers and patrons got what they deserved in Kaz Brekker's book.] It was a balancing of books. A reminder more should have that they aren't invulnerable. [A beat.] I would have appreciated a moment like that, too. [Though probably not laughed. He hasn't truly laughed since he was born. Reborn. Was there a difference?
His eyes aren't mismatched. His hair isn't varied colors, or in disarray. It's all slicked back and neat. Deep browns and blacks. Earthy colors. He's positively normal and boring, easy to look past. He might pass as a crack in the roads, if not for his intellect and drive. If not for crawling out of hell at another's cost. It's fine. He's found himself a crew that are prettier than he is. That are more agile, that have greater aim. That have powers he doesn't. What does he bring, then? A roof. A full pantry. A promise of purpose, and an absolute unyielding fury to get things done.
And then they move on.
And he takes in the next round of hungry people. Puts daggers in their hands. Vengeance in their hearts. He trains and he profits. He gives them a home, if they ever need it even after they leave. Nobody is ever homeless, once they're part of his crew. Is that what's he's looking for?
Or has he simply not known how to stop moving forward, once Rollins is in jail?
Dark pools of water, far deeper than the harbor's, meet hers.]
Why would I stop?
Some things that are lost you can't get back. [Jordie.] Not moving forward despite that though feels like losing more, rather than taking back what's earned.
[ The room felt tighter, the air heavy with the patter of rain against the closed window. A grin spread across her face, sharp at the corners but distant in her eyes. ] A balancing of books [ , she said, her voice low. ] That’s a clean way to see it. They deserved what they got, didn’t they? Those who think they’ve already won always forget they can still bleed.
[ Her focus lingered on him, studying the deliberate cadence of his words ]. You would’ve appreciated it [ , she said, tapping her fingers against the desk in a rhythm that didn’t match the rain. ] But you wouldn’t have laughed. You don’t laugh at things anymore. Not in the way that matters. That part of you burned out a long time ago. Whether at the start or the end doesn’t change what’s gone.
[ Her gaze held his, a stillness to her mismatched eyes that mirrored the unyielding depths of his. ] Why would you stop? That’s not who you are. You’re a wheel, always turning, grinding, moving forward. Stopping isn’t in you. Stopping means breaking. It means becoming nothing. [ She shifted, her movements slow, deliberate, and her voice softened. ] But some wheels don’t turn freely. They’re tied to something heavy, something that’s already sunk and dragging them deeper with every turn.
[ Her fingers traced patterns on the desk, her focus distant but her tone cutting. ] Moving forward feels like winning, doesn’t it? Like taking back what they took. But moving forward doesn’t always mean letting go. Sometimes it means carrying what’s been lost, no matter how heavy.
[No, he doesn't laugh any longer. Only performatively, to mock someone he feels needs it. There aren't any belly laughs he can't control, where tears pour out and panting results. He's too tightly coiled now, or perhaps when he rebuilt himself using makeshift parts, that bit of scrap just hadn't made the cut. He's wondered sometimes when seeing his friends laugh in passing whether he's still capable of it at all. Ultimately he always lands on it not being a priority either way.
He sips his drink, tasting the bitter fire that burns down and ends with a sweet aftertaste. He never drinks enough to get properly drunk any longer. The most he allows himself is a slight tipsiness, a faint softening at the edges that doesn't blur his vision beyond functionality. He doesn't like not being in control.]
Sometimes there's a lot to carry. It's an easier weight to bear if you refuse to consider the alternative, though. People give themselves an out so they can take it. I don't know if gods and cosmic beings are any different.
[ The tapping stopped as she moved, the rhythm broken as though it had never mattered. Her steps were almost too fluid, as if she weren’t bound to the same rules of movement as everything else. In a single motion, she slid onto the edge of the desk, legs swinging in a lazy rhythm that matched the rain outside. The chaotic energy in her seemed to settle for a moment, or perhaps it only shifted, concentrated now where her mismatched eyes bore into him. ]
Letting go [ , she mused, the words curling and unfurling like smoke. ] That’s the trick, isn’t it? Not holding so tightly. Not dragging it with you. But I don’t think you’d like it. Letting go is messy. It leaves pieces behind, and you—you don’t like anything out of place, do you?
[ She leaned forward slightly, her hand brushing across a stack of papers as though her touch might rearrange them. ] You’d rather carry it. Keep it all neat and contained. Build it into something sharp, something heavy. But sharp things cut. Heavy things crush. And even if you never stop, even if the wheel keeps turning, the weight doesn’t go away.
Perhaps. [His hand moves outward to the papers in the desire to keep them settled. He does like keeping everything in order. It isn't always easy or possible, but he's found that keeping order externally helps keeping order internally, and vice versa.] There are parts of myself that have been lost or discarded along the way. Or replaced with something more useful. It's been a long time though since that happened.
[He's long since bent and twisted himself into a form that's most useful to him now. Although not a fully complete one. Perhaps no person can be that. There are still elements of himself he'd like to change, to improve. He's created walls and sharp angles to protect what's vulnerable about himself, but that vulnerability still exists.]
I can't imagine even cosmic beings have such an easy time letting things go, either.
[ Her grin tilted, shifting into something almost reflective, as though his words stirred an old memory she wasn’t entirely sure belonged to her. ] Easy? [ she echoed, swinging her legs again, the motion steady and unhurried. ]
No, I don’t think it’s ever easy. Not for anyone. Not for anything.
[ Her fingers hovered over the papers for a moment, her eyes following the path of his hand as though considering whether to disrupt his order again. Instead, her fingers withdrew, curling into her lap as she leaned back, balancing precariously on the desk’s edge without a hint of concern. ] Even the stars don’t let go easily. You can see it when they die. They hold on until they collapse, and even then, they become something else. Black holes, supernovas. They can’t stop holding on, even when there’s nothing left to burn.
[His mind of course doesn't naturally think in terms of the stars, but hers does. When she makes the comparison though, he can see it. His narrow chin juts down in a single nod, sipping more of his drink at a slow and steady rate. It's not like how he eats. Then he inhales, shoveling it down not for pleasure but for purpose. A holdover from when he never knew if he'd get another meal, or how long this one would last without being stolen. It's easier to eat on the go, shoveling it in, multitasking, than to relax and dine. Ever in motion. He doesn't know if she feels like that, too.]
I think if people became something else rather than thinking they become nothing would make them fear death less. Or rather, if they became something else they wanted, rather than just decomposition. Most people don't care at all about just becoming good soil. Too selfish for that.
It's not always a bad thing, though. To become something else.
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noreasonneeded) wrote2024-12-23 06:23 am
no subject
His eyes aren't mismatched. His hair isn't varied colors, or in disarray. It's all slicked back and neat. Deep browns and blacks. Earthy colors. He's positively normal and boring, easy to look past. He might pass as a crack in the roads, if not for his intellect and drive. If not for crawling out of hell at another's cost. It's fine. He's found himself a crew that are prettier than he is. That are more agile, that have greater aim. That have powers he doesn't. What does he bring, then? A roof. A full pantry. A promise of purpose, and an absolute unyielding fury to get things done.
And then they move on.
And he takes in the next round of hungry people. Puts daggers in their hands. Vengeance in their hearts. He trains and he profits. He gives them a home, if they ever need it even after they leave. Nobody is ever homeless, once they're part of his crew. Is that what's he's looking for?
Or has he simply not known how to stop moving forward, once Rollins is in jail?
Dark pools of water, far deeper than the harbor's, meet hers.]
Why would I stop?
Some things that are lost you can't get back. [Jordie.] Not moving forward despite that though feels like losing more, rather than taking back what's earned.
no subject
[ Her focus lingered on him, studying the deliberate cadence of his words ]. You would’ve appreciated it [ , she said, tapping her fingers against the desk in a rhythm that didn’t match the rain. ] But you wouldn’t have laughed. You don’t laugh at things anymore. Not in the way that matters. That part of you burned out a long time ago. Whether at the start or the end doesn’t change what’s gone.
[ Her gaze held his, a stillness to her mismatched eyes that mirrored the unyielding depths of his. ] Why would you stop? That’s not who you are. You’re a wheel, always turning, grinding, moving forward. Stopping isn’t in you. Stopping means breaking. It means becoming nothing. [ She shifted, her movements slow, deliberate, and her voice softened. ] But some wheels don’t turn freely. They’re tied to something heavy, something that’s already sunk and dragging them deeper with every turn.
[ Her fingers traced patterns on the desk, her focus distant but her tone cutting. ] Moving forward feels like winning, doesn’t it? Like taking back what they took. But moving forward doesn’t always mean letting go. Sometimes it means carrying what’s been lost, no matter how heavy.
no subject
He sips his drink, tasting the bitter fire that burns down and ends with a sweet aftertaste. He never drinks enough to get properly drunk any longer. The most he allows himself is a slight tipsiness, a faint softening at the edges that doesn't blur his vision beyond functionality. He doesn't like not being in control.]
Sometimes there's a lot to carry. It's an easier weight to bear if you refuse to consider the alternative, though. People give themselves an out so they can take it. I don't know if gods and cosmic beings are any different.
no subject
Letting go [ , she mused, the words curling and unfurling like smoke. ] That’s the trick, isn’t it? Not holding so tightly. Not dragging it with you. But I don’t think you’d like it. Letting go is messy. It leaves pieces behind, and you—you don’t like anything out of place, do you?
[ She leaned forward slightly, her hand brushing across a stack of papers as though her touch might rearrange them. ] You’d rather carry it. Keep it all neat and contained. Build it into something sharp, something heavy. But sharp things cut. Heavy things crush. And even if you never stop, even if the wheel keeps turning, the weight doesn’t go away.
no subject
[He's long since bent and twisted himself into a form that's most useful to him now. Although not a fully complete one. Perhaps no person can be that. There are still elements of himself he'd like to change, to improve. He's created walls and sharp angles to protect what's vulnerable about himself, but that vulnerability still exists.]
I can't imagine even cosmic beings have such an easy time letting things go, either.
no subject
No, I don’t think it’s ever easy. Not for anyone. Not for anything.
[ Her fingers hovered over the papers for a moment, her eyes following the path of his hand as though considering whether to disrupt his order again. Instead, her fingers withdrew, curling into her lap as she leaned back, balancing precariously on the desk’s edge without a hint of concern. ] Even the stars don’t let go easily. You can see it when they die. They hold on until they collapse, and even then, they become something else. Black holes, supernovas. They can’t stop holding on, even when there’s nothing left to burn.
no subject
I think if people became something else rather than thinking they become nothing would make them fear death less. Or rather, if they became something else they wanted, rather than just decomposition. Most people don't care at all about just becoming good soil. Too selfish for that.
It's not always a bad thing, though. To become something else.