Before he'll see it, he'll hear her quietly moving before him. And then a warm hand over his own, a gentle pressure there. If he opens his eyes then, Fever is crouched down before him, looking into his face from her position.
There are many things she thinks about him - she hasn't lost any of the dissatisfaction that comes from his actions, from imprisoning someone so. But even her ruined skull can see that it's far more complicated than black and white, messier than anything she ever heard about Cazador, than her circumstances before. He carries none of it with pride. He carries it because it is his. And he is showing her his wounds that fester still, that have not been able to knit themselves back together after all this time.
"Listen to me, Erik. Unless there were two of you - one to sentence the woman to her death, to wield the lash, to bestow upon you impossible compulsion, to create circumstances designed to perfectly destroy you, and the other to endure all that torture - you did not do this to yourself. There is no way that is so, in this entire plane or any other."
If he looks, there is an intensity in Fever's eyes - not a sorrow, but a flickering empathy. Something that understands.
"That death you dealt is yours. To pretend otherwise would be disgraceful. But equally so, I do not believe any power could have stopped it."
He can hear the movement, and sense her in front of him, but it takes a few extra moments to find the courage to look. When he does, he's taken aback by the empathy he finds in her. She has every right not to grant it to him. Especially given what she came here to discuss. Part of him expected to be told it served him right. Part of him agrees. That part grows smaller by the day. Today, especially. He cannot deny the intensity of her gaze, or how the words seem to come from a place deep in her soul. A kindred place.
"I do not deny it is mine," he says with returning resolve. "That I had no power to stop it makes her no less dead. Nor any of the other poor victims whose throats my master cut right in front of me. Even as a vampire, I was still nothing more than his toy. I just happened to be far less breakable." He can't bring himself to elaborate on that but he's sure Fever has no trouble imagining what it could mean.
"Always." His fingers curl into fists under her touch. "Not even a thousand years is enough to expunge it."
He never escaped the mocking. How many times did he hear that he was a failure? Oh, how his master delighted in reminding him that those scars would always hold him back. Who would love a marred creature like him? Who would respect a vampire who couldn't stand to eat?
"It shames me that I became like him, even a fraction. I told myself I wouldn't." He failed there, too.
There's something of a huff, a tiny shake of her head.
"Hence what you said about being better, every day."
That's his to carry along with the dead. There's no idealistic outcome where he didn't become what he did. Where circumstances are to blame. The parts of it that are his are his. She does not offer forgiveness, only understanding in the most bitter, blood soaked sense. But still, her hands are warm.
It's better that she doesn't try to dissuade him of that. He must carry this load to make sure that he never lets himself slip again. If arrogance was his downfall, then humility must be his uprising.
He gives her hand a squeeze, and then withdraws. "Thank you, Fever, for hearing me out. I do not take it lightly that you came to talk rather than to avenge. You can stay as long as you are comfortable but I think I might like some time to sit alone with my thoughts."
She rises near silently, and walks out the same way. He needs time, and she doesn't trust herself not to misstep now if she stays. Later, she won't be able to focus at home, too busy turning his words over in her mind.
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lordoftheozarks) wrote2023-06-13 08:20 pm
no subject
There are many things she thinks about him - she hasn't lost any of the dissatisfaction that comes from his actions, from imprisoning someone so. But even her ruined skull can see that it's far more complicated than black and white, messier than anything she ever heard about Cazador, than her circumstances before. He carries none of it with pride. He carries it because it is his. And he is showing her his wounds that fester still, that have not been able to knit themselves back together after all this time.
"Listen to me, Erik. Unless there were two of you - one to sentence the woman to her death, to wield the lash, to bestow upon you impossible compulsion, to create circumstances designed to perfectly destroy you, and the other to endure all that torture - you did not do this to yourself. There is no way that is so, in this entire plane or any other."
If he looks, there is an intensity in Fever's eyes - not a sorrow, but a flickering empathy. Something that understands.
"That death you dealt is yours. To pretend otherwise would be disgraceful. But equally so, I do not believe any power could have stopped it."
So, one carries it. One remembers.
no subject
"I do not deny it is mine," he says with returning resolve. "That I had no power to stop it makes her no less dead. Nor any of the other poor victims whose throats my master cut right in front of me. Even as a vampire, I was still nothing more than his toy. I just happened to be far less breakable." He can't bring himself to elaborate on that but he's sure Fever has no trouble imagining what it could mean.
"He never let me forget it."
no subject
Her thumbs stroke the backs of his hands where they rest.
"You can still hear his voice, can't you?"
no subject
He never escaped the mocking. How many times did he hear that he was a failure? Oh, how his master delighted in reminding him that those scars would always hold him back. Who would love a marred creature like him? Who would respect a vampire who couldn't stand to eat?
"It shames me that I became like him, even a fraction. I told myself I wouldn't." He failed there, too.
no subject
"Hence what you said about being better, every day."
That's his to carry along with the dead. There's no idealistic outcome where he didn't become what he did. Where circumstances are to blame. The parts of it that are his are his. She does not offer forgiveness, only understanding in the most bitter, blood soaked sense. But still, her hands are warm.
no subject
It's better that she doesn't try to dissuade him of that. He must carry this load to make sure that he never lets himself slip again. If arrogance was his downfall, then humility must be his uprising.
He gives her hand a squeeze, and then withdraws. "Thank you, Fever, for hearing me out. I do not take it lightly that you came to talk rather than to avenge. You can stay as long as you are comfortable but I think I might like some time to sit alone with my thoughts."
wrap?
She rises near silently, and walks out the same way. He needs time, and she doesn't trust herself not to misstep now if she stays. Later, she won't be able to focus at home, too busy turning his words over in her mind.