[narrative] i've always wanted for you what you wanted for yourself
Aphrael's given him a gift he doesn't deserve. He knows this, as well as he knows that no amount of time to prepare for that conversation could've found him more deserving. Still, he has no intention of wasting what she's given him -- this opportunity holds a lifetime he could be proud of, and more importantly one that she could take pride in as well.
He doesn't let himself consider Sephrenia's thoughts on it, not yet, nor anyone else's.
The connection is there, again, and he finds himself delighting in it the way he delighted in the new knowledge of it once as a novice. Practice is important; the understanding never left, but he's rusty and a fluent command of the language doesn't mean he still has the same mastery of the secrets that he did a decade ago. A bowl of water sits in front of him on the table and once he's begun it comes easily to him; he hardly thinks of the image he's casting until he looks down at it, caught and held still by her eyes looking through him.
He didn't love her, then--certainly he'd thought he did, but it hadn't been quite what he'd imagined it was--but God knew he could've. She'd been so beautiful, smaller and more delicate hands on his forearms when he lifted her laughing. He'd had grand and glorious plans, some of which she'd encouraged and some of which she saw no sense in. She'd laughed at him and laughed with him and hadn't she always been laughing, always thinking, always talking or whispering. He'd only wanted to know what she'd say to him.
It was the closest thing he could give her to a kindness when he said nothing, standing silent while she raged and when she finally turned her back on him. He won't wish anything different for her now -- too far from the man she'd thought to marry for it to matter any -- but he watches her on the water until the image dissipates.
It's a quieting moment. He pours the water away, thinking on his promises.
He doesn't let himself consider Sephrenia's thoughts on it, not yet, nor anyone else's.
The connection is there, again, and he finds himself delighting in it the way he delighted in the new knowledge of it once as a novice. Practice is important; the understanding never left, but he's rusty and a fluent command of the language doesn't mean he still has the same mastery of the secrets that he did a decade ago. A bowl of water sits in front of him on the table and once he's begun it comes easily to him; he hardly thinks of the image he's casting until he looks down at it, caught and held still by her eyes looking through him.
He didn't love her, then--certainly he'd thought he did, but it hadn't been quite what he'd imagined it was--but God knew he could've. She'd been so beautiful, smaller and more delicate hands on his forearms when he lifted her laughing. He'd had grand and glorious plans, some of which she'd encouraged and some of which she saw no sense in. She'd laughed at him and laughed with him and hadn't she always been laughing, always thinking, always talking or whispering. He'd only wanted to know what she'd say to him.
It was the closest thing he could give her to a kindness when he said nothing, standing silent while she raged and when she finally turned her back on him. He won't wish anything different for her now -- too far from the man she'd thought to marry for it to matter any -- but he watches her on the water until the image dissipates.
It's a quieting moment. He pours the water away, thinking on his promises.