[ it's selfishness too, to want to do this. melisandre speaks logic, truths, so that's one thing. such an act might not fix or change anything -- or could make things worse. ]
I don't care.
[ but he sounds tired, not angry. he died trying to stop the apocalypse, and that's acceptable. except -- he's still living, one way or another, with unfinished business and the sting of potential failure.
not once in 45 years did he ever stop to think about any kind of after -- life after succeeding or failing to stop the apocalypse. living with the result, good or bad. so: if he tried something rash, and something happened to him now...he wouldn't care. ]
And it is just fine not to care. It hurts to care.
⦑ the tiredness is a soreness so familiar she associates it with life just as much as breathing, as a heartbeat. to fight destiny, fate, every single day, is a feat which links them, and she does not view is fight as any less than her own, in spite of hers having lasted longer.
she steps forward, setting the basket down, and seating herself on the forest floor. she'll be there, if he wishes to do the same. ⦒
This is why you must, occasionally, allow others to do the caring for you.
[ melisandre, as she always does, offers kindness. warmth, despite her shadowy homelands, compassion and understanding. she has an unfathomably high opinion of him, which he'll probably never understand.
sometimes, he allows himself to bask in the light she gives off, just a little. today, he can't bear it.
so without turning back to look at her, he teleports away.
(but he keeps the promise he didn't make: he doesn't seek out the lighthouse.) ]
⦑ she lingers for a while, in the light of her lantern, waiting to see if he returns. when he doesn't, she'll leave eventually –– but the basket of food stays behind, just in case.
rest doesn't come easy that night, not with the way she keeps wandering to the window to see if anything, anything at all, has changed about the lighthouse in the darkness. but all is quiet, as quiet as it can be.
more than once that night, she prays for him, prays warmth and comfort can find him, prays he stays safe, prays his unknown brother can reach him before the darkness forced upon him tears him down.⦒
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no subject
I don't care.
[ but he sounds tired, not angry. he died trying to stop the apocalypse, and that's acceptable. except -- he's still living, one way or another, with unfinished business and the sting of potential failure.
not once in 45 years did he ever stop to think about any kind of after -- life after succeeding or failing to stop the apocalypse. living with the result, good or bad. so: if he tried something rash, and something happened to him now...he wouldn't care. ]
no subject
⦑ the tiredness is a soreness so familiar she associates it with life just as much as breathing, as a heartbeat. to fight destiny, fate, every single day, is a feat which links them, and she does not view is fight as any less than her own, in spite of hers having lasted longer.
she steps forward, setting the basket down, and seating herself on the forest floor. she'll be there, if he wishes to do the same. ⦒
This is why you must, occasionally, allow others to do the caring for you.
no subject
sometimes, he allows himself to bask in the light she gives off, just a little. today, he can't bear it.
so without turning back to look at her, he teleports away.
(but he keeps the promise he didn't make: he doesn't seek out the lighthouse.) ]
no subject
rest doesn't come easy that night, not with the way she keeps wandering to the window to see if anything, anything at all, has changed about the lighthouse in the darkness. but all is quiet, as quiet as it can be.
more than once that night, she prays for him, prays warmth and comfort can find him, prays he stays safe, prays his unknown brother can reach him before the darkness forced upon him tears him down.⦒