it makes a terrible sort of sense for a child; he knew even before this that her life was askew, forced to clean to 'earn' the things that other children were given without question. the sound of father's voice makes his skin crawl, even in this strange, out-of-body experience, and then there's the wildness and fear as time grows closer to the present.
a madman made parent. but he doesn't really matter. his gaze settles on her, gaze dropping briefly to her bare neck before he lets out a breath and offers her a hand as he collects himself, emotions and memories and sensations recalibrating after time in the void. ]
[she has to kind of just... figure out how to breathe for a second, working her way through it. she's relived this a few times. it's not new. but even still...
he offers a hand, and she reaches to take it instinctively. there's the sound of something that's almost birdsong, but it's strangled, almost hissing. she can't help that so much, or the scales that crawl up around her fingers.]
... It's alright. [she says finally, swallowing hard.] It's... I'm sorry that you had to experience it.
[bit by bit, taking those emotions and putting them away, compartmentalizing. she's fine.]
Please, there's nothing to apologize for! [ if anything, he wishes he could've changed history for her. ] Why would I ever shy from learning more about a cherished friend?
[ he does something that should be familiar now, which is dropping down to wrap an arm around her in a hug. he doesn't do this nearly so much at home, royal decorum and all, but it seems silly to let that get in the way here. he holds her hand still though, like that might stop the scales from spreading any further up into her palm. ]
You're the one who had to live it in earnest. And... revisit it, here. [ the problem with memory is that it gets a little easier with time, and distance, and new happiness—it isn't repetition that heals a wound. opening a scab again and again doesn't make it easier to close back over. he finds some balance and smiles, small. ] It's something I wish you to be free from, even if memory likes to follow us so closely.
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it makes a terrible sort of sense for a child; he knew even before this that her life was askew, forced to clean to 'earn' the things that other children were given without question. the sound of father's voice makes his skin crawl, even in this strange, out-of-body experience, and then there's the wildness and fear as time grows closer to the present.
a madman made parent. but he doesn't really matter. his gaze settles on her, gaze dropping briefly to her bare neck before he lets out a breath and offers her a hand as he collects himself, emotions and memories and sensations recalibrating after time in the void. ]
...Sorry to intrude, dear Throné.
no subject
he offers a hand, and she reaches to take it instinctively. there's the sound of something that's almost birdsong, but it's strangled, almost hissing. she can't help that so much, or the scales that crawl up around her fingers.]
... It's alright. [she says finally, swallowing hard.] It's... I'm sorry that you had to experience it.
[bit by bit, taking those emotions and putting them away, compartmentalizing. she's fine.]
no subject
Please, there's nothing to apologize for! [ if anything, he wishes he could've changed history for her. ] Why would I ever shy from learning more about a cherished friend?
[ he does something that should be familiar now, which is dropping down to wrap an arm around her in a hug. he doesn't do this nearly so much at home, royal decorum and all, but it seems silly to let that get in the way here. he holds her hand still though, like that might stop the scales from spreading any further up into her palm. ]
You're the one who had to live it in earnest. And... revisit it, here. [ the problem with memory is that it gets a little easier with time, and distance, and new happiness—it isn't repetition that heals a wound. opening a scab again and again doesn't make it easier to close back over. he finds some balance and smiles, small. ] It's something I wish you to be free from, even if memory likes to follow us so closely.