[ it still hurts. she wants to ask who--and how, and why the stakes shifted so very quickly, without her even knowing. but it's wiser not to follow that path... isn't it? walking down it doesn't make it change. ]
You should have told me sooner.
[ that's all. she sighs, allowing his hand to slip from between hers, and looks around her wretched room ]
But I should not have made you feel how you did. You said I made you smile through so much.
[Well. She'll find out soon enough, won't she? 8')
But maybe he should have. Easier to keep the knowledge to himself than letting it unwind and spill freely. Old habits die hard, and the timing never presented itself in Henry's estimation, though maybe that was still... unfair to her. Unkind. Henry Creel's MO, basically.]
[It's fine maybe they can discuss that.......later]
Squandered? Look at us now.
[She's let him into this memory. Let him into one that is painful, burning. She's apologizing to him, and still wanting to remain connected -- they're making promises with each other. Nothing's been squandered, and he says as much.]
Nothing's been squandered. And you're one of the most interesting people I know. Becoming bored of you is like becoming bored of myself.
[And we know how Henry's pride would make that a non-issue. That's a compliment in its own way.]
[ it's time she feels like she squandered most of all. so long spent snipping at him over things that now seem so minor—yes, even the familicide. now, their time together is dwindling down to zero and she just can't see it yet. she just knows it's happening. ]
I would so hate to be boring woman.
[ finally, she leverages off her knees. ash sticks to her clothes. she does not Prestidigitate it away. ]
[Time only dictates what begins and what ends if you let it, Sprezzatura. They can mold it to their own liking if they try hard enough.]
I was going to, anyway.
[He grins a little knowingly. What a sour note it'd be, leaving her room in this state, even if it is just a memory. He gestures with a hand, almost lazy, and just like that, things warp and wane and reset. Her room is exactly how it was just prior, mess and all.
Though maybe that dress is no longer on the floor.]
I'm not usually the kind of person to tell someone how they should treat their kinder memories... [That is the opposite of how he operates, generally.] But you should hold onto this one. This room.
[ like the fire that ruined it never was. she feels a sudden lump in her throat, emotion suddenly so much closer to the surface than it was a moment ago--when she looks around and sees the smudges where her memory is already not so clear.
the books on her shelves have no titles. the writing scrawled across her many scrolls... it's mostly indecipherable. ]
[Details that even Henry can't sharpen with his powers; when there's nothing to work with, there's only fuzzy, barely-there recollections, and of course he notices them, is aware of them. Blurry little patchworks on the whole tapestry of memory.]
The details don't matter. It's feelings, and experiences, that do.
[That's what makes it so easy to wrench out grief and fear from his victims. Not every little thing needs to be accurate, only the bigger picture, the associations with any given image that he can twist into despair.
But... in that way, the opposite is true, too.]
We can make new ones, better ones. Wasn't I owed a glass of wine?
[ but the details do matter to her, the way she always fixates on them to the exclusion of the bigger picture. so for a moment or two, she looks tragically unhappy--like a hand has clenched around her heart.
[Memories warp and wane all the time. Even Henry's. Just ask him about the days in the lab, where rote sameness should ingrain every detail harshly into his recollection, but the opposite is true -- every day felt like a blur, one bleeding into the next, with no separation in-between, clouding it all over with discontent.
But he supposes that's different: a place hated versus a place loved. He can understand why it would be hard for her.
...Wine seems to perk her up, though.]
Well, it better be, now that you've set high expectations.
it's not a happy laugh, necessarily, but a laugh is still a laugh, isn't it? even now, even accepting that what she wanted isn't to be, she can still do that.
she moves to one of her cabinets and begins the arduous process of rifling through. this is no "under the bed" wine. ]
[ she can count the number of times she's heard him laugh. she counts now—or rather, she realizes she can't, because it has been that infrequent. ]
I smuggled this from my family home.
[ as she produces a blue-glass wine bottle and turns it in her hands. looking head-on at the thought that there may not be a next time is not something she can do right now, either. she busies herself with uncorking and pouring him a glass instead. ]
[Not a sincere one, anyway. She's been one of a very select few in this place to wrench an actual laugh out of him, one that isn't performative at best.
From here, he can catch a glimpse of the color of the wine as she pours it into the glass.]
[He takes the glass by its stem, watching as the liquid moves within. It is very rich and plummy-looking. He lets it hover just beneath his nose, taking in the scent, and it doesn't take much to catch in his nostrils, though not in a wholly unpleasant way.
Eyebrows lift.] In that case, this is worth a toast, isn't it?
[ do not be rude about this wine, Henry. a bottle is forty times more expensive than the daily needs of the most aristocratic, servant-flush, ball-attending lifestyle in dungeons and dragons ]
Hm. [ it's no small thing to toast, she thinks. it has to mean something. so she casts around for something to toast to, and settles on: ] To... meeting again.
[ rather than pour herself a glass, she offers the bottle towards him ]
[He's not being rude, wine is just very foreign to him in general, gosh!! His palette is not exactly the most refined, though he can at least appreciate that it'll be better than the godawful beer he found in that other prison.
Also, girl are you going to drink from the bottle.
[ she's going to drink from the bottle. it would be nice to smile back, too, but it's still just a little too raw for that, so he simply receives a faint twitch of her lips.
clinks the bottle against his glass ]
To satisfying ending.
[ for him, at least. she still isn't sure about herself. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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You should have told me sooner.
[ that's all. she sighs, allowing his hand to slip from between hers, and looks around her wretched room ]
But I should not have made you feel how you did. You said I made you smile through so much.
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But maybe he should have. Easier to keep the knowledge to himself than letting it unwind and spill freely. Old habits die hard, and the timing never presented itself in Henry's estimation, though maybe that was still... unfair to her. Unkind. Henry Creel's MO, basically.]
Well. Maybe I pushed too hard.
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I am... sorry. [ even now, an apology is like pulling stones from her throat ] For what I squandered. You will not become bored of me now, will you?
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Squandered? Look at us now.
[She's let him into this memory. Let him into one that is painful, burning. She's apologizing to him, and still wanting to remain connected -- they're making promises with each other. Nothing's been squandered, and he says as much.]
Nothing's been squandered. And you're one of the most interesting people I know. Becoming bored of you is like becoming bored of myself.
[And we know how Henry's pride would make that a non-issue. That's a compliment in its own way.]
It won't happen.
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I would so hate to be boring woman.
[ finally, she leverages off her knees. ash sticks to her clothes. she does not Prestidigitate it away. ]
Can you... fix room?
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I was going to, anyway.
[He grins a little knowingly. What a sour note it'd be, leaving her room in this state, even if it is just a memory. He gestures with a hand, almost lazy, and just like that, things warp and wane and reset. Her room is exactly how it was just prior, mess and all.
Though maybe that dress is no longer on the floor.]
I'm not usually the kind of person to tell someone how they should treat their kinder memories... [That is the opposite of how he operates, generally.] But you should hold onto this one. This room.
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the books on her shelves have no titles. the writing scrawled across her many scrolls... it's mostly indecipherable. ]
I am already losing it.
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The details don't matter. It's feelings, and experiences, that do.
[That's what makes it so easy to wrench out grief and fear from his victims. Not every little thing needs to be accurate, only the bigger picture, the associations with any given image that he can twist into despair.
But... in that way, the opposite is true, too.]
We can make new ones, better ones. Wasn't I owed a glass of wine?
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and it pops, and she laughs.
he's right. she does owe him some wine. ]
Haa. Really good stuff, this time.
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But he supposes that's different: a place hated versus a place loved. He can understand why it would be hard for her.
...Wine seems to perk her up, though.]
Well, it better be, now that you've set high expectations.
[He grins.]
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it's not a happy laugh, necessarily, but a laugh is still a laugh, isn't it? even now, even accepting that what she wanted isn't to be, she can still do that.
she moves to one of her cabinets and begins the arduous process of rifling through. this is no "under the bed" wine. ]
Jasmarim Shadow.
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Not from under the bed? You’re giving me the fancy stuff today.
[Giving her a hard time… jokingly!]
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Maybe next time.
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I smuggled this from my family home.
[ as she produces a blue-glass wine bottle and turns it in her hands. looking head-on at the thought that there may not be a next time is not something she can do right now, either. she busies herself with uncorking and pouring him a glass instead. ]
Prohibitively expensive, this.
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From here, he can catch a glimpse of the color of the wine as she pours it into the glass.]
Saved for special occasions only?
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No. [ casually ] This is my fourth bottle.
[ that she's stolen. ]
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Then I’m declaring this a special occasion, anyway. Fourth bottle or otherwise.
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[ this, just barely breathed out. she turns and offers him the glass; the wine is plummy and smells incredibly strong. ]
This is our pact, after all.
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Eyebrows lift.] In that case, this is worth a toast, isn't it?
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Hm. [ it's no small thing to toast, she thinks. it has to mean something. so she casts around for something to toast to, and settles on: ] To... meeting again.
[ rather than pour herself a glass, she offers the bottle towards him ]
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Also, girl are you going to drink from the bottle.
But he lifts his glass, smiling.]
To the inevitable.
[Meeting again.]
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clinks the bottle against his glass ]
To satisfying ending.
[ for him, at least. she still isn't sure about herself. ]
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He has a reply for that, but first... He drinks from his glass. Just how strong are we talking for wine?]
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Sprezzatura does in fact sip from the bottle, tipping her head back. ]
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WE STILL NEED SOMETHING HAPPY TO THREAD
THIS IS GIVING ME WHIPLASH