[ so much of his history feels distant. his life before the tragedy felt overwritten by the flames of that day—his time at garreg mach was eclipsed by all the years that followed. he'd forgotten what these conversations were like, out in the sun-filled gazebos and canopies of the monastery courtyards, surrounded by the smell of fresh tea and crisp mountain air. he's forgotten the way they had afforded him comfort in the past.
and so they haven't had a real heart-to-heart in many years. long enough now that he can't predict what she'd say, his eyebrows hopping up in surprise for a moment before he sobers again. ]
But...
[ why?
—and then the words just happen. they're thoughts he's had, but never shaped into speech, because it's not a priority over the work owed to the dead. except now they tumble out of him like a mistake, lost and weak, just as vulnerable as he left himself when he was seventeen and opening up to his professor for the first time. ] Do I deserve so much?
[ you should have died that day with us. you should have died for all you've done. i will NEVER forgive you. ]
I've lived my life in pursuit of the past. I've survived only for the dead. Everything ounce of effort in my life was put toward easing their cries of pain, and I—it's done nothing. Amounted to nothing, saved no one. All I've done is wrought more misery, and more blood...
[ he sucks in a sharp breath, swallows where his throat feels raw. he has hurt so many people. ]
So why am I still alive? Even here, I... [ he's survived week after week. how? why? he was outside for the very first murder. he could have died. he could have— ] I want you to treasure yourself, but what right do I have to live like that?
[it's hard to listen to him speaking in such pain, but there was a good to itā€”like a poison being slowly drawn out of a wound. and the words keep coming, one after another, falling and filling up the space between them, the water table of verbal grieving rising inch by inch, making up for all the lost time. and she listens.
there was a stretch of time when she first joined the Monastery's teaching team when listening was all she'd had. she's never been a talented speakerā€”Jeralt had been similarly miserly with his wordsā€”and it passed down, summarizing her lessons as succinctly as possible, speaking to the heart of the matter as much as she could.
so it's always been her private joy to listen to her students and others speak so openly on their own chosen subjects, and so freelyā€”and then, trace through the lines of their conversation, back to their own heart.
Dimitri speaks, and she listens. listens past the ghosts that can't be quelled, will never be silent, and tries to listen beyond, to his own keening heart. the miserable weight he labors under, the endless crimes he chains around his own neck, determined to drag himself into hell.
revenge has always played a core role in Dimitri's conversations, and she'd been caught in it, beforeā€”curled around his beliefs like a fist in desperation following Jeralt's death, a rudderless boat attempting to anchor to something, anything, in a sudden, whipping storm. but the grief had passed, as grief tends toā€”and left her with a clear eye over just what remained. the words that guided him came not from long-dead spirits of the past, but from his own guilt-fraught heart, clawing to escape his perceived sinsā€”but how could he? there was no distance he could run, no successes to be found, when he continuously created and moved his own shining goals. with Dimitri as both the architect and the resident, it was a assiduously-crafted hall of torment with a self-assured guarantee of failure, no matter what he did.
but this was a new line, a fragile, tenuous connection to his heart, shivering vulnerable, nearly unseen, in the air between them. like a spider's web frosted heavy with dew, as likely to snap from the weight as it is to disappear after it evaporates. and it begs to be traced, to be followedā€”answered sincerely, handled gently.
she couldā€”wants toā€”tell him he's wrong, that he's already done so much. that he's lived as well as he could be expected to, that he's been hurt, raised to hold more than his fair share for far too long. that he's suffered too much, far too much, enough for a thousand. that what he needs and deserves now is forgiveness, kindness, not just from and towards others, but most importantly, from and towards himself. that it plucks at her own heart, taut with worry, watching him struggle daily against the stubbornly undivided, straining load.
but it's been more than a month, now, since Rodrigue passed. universes away, in stopped time, a group is still surely huddled around that long table, quietly discussing what to do with what remains. outside, the rain pours down in a frozen relief. it's been more than a month, and Dimitri has finally mentioned his name out loud to her, through the pain and loss, the waves of grief threatening to overwhelm him just at the utterance. more than a month, and his final words still rest in her heart.
then, perhaps they also rest in his.
she reaches out, placing a hand on top of his own. gently, gently.]
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divineimpulse) wrote2021-06-05 06:42 pm
no subject
and so they haven't had a real heart-to-heart in many years. long enough now that he can't predict what she'd say, his eyebrows hopping up in surprise for a moment before he sobers again. ]
But...
[ why?
—and then the words just happen. they're thoughts he's had, but never shaped into speech, because it's not a priority over the work owed to the dead. except now they tumble out of him like a mistake, lost and weak, just as vulnerable as he left himself when he was seventeen and opening up to his professor for the first time. ] Do I deserve so much?
[ you should have died that day with us. you should have died for all you've done. i will NEVER forgive you. ]
I've lived my life in pursuit of the past. I've survived only for the dead. Everything ounce of effort in my life was put toward easing their cries of pain, and I—it's done nothing. Amounted to nothing, saved no one. All I've done is wrought more misery, and more blood...
[ he sucks in a sharp breath, swallows where his throat feels raw. he has hurt so many people. ]
So why am I still alive? Even here, I... [ he's survived week after week. how? why? he was outside for the very first murder. he could have died. he could have— ] I want you to treasure yourself, but what right do I have to live like that?
no subject
[it's hard to listen to him speaking in such pain, but there was a good to itā€”like a poison being slowly drawn out of a wound. and the words keep coming, one after another, falling and filling up the space between them, the water table of verbal grieving rising inch by inch, making up for all the lost time. and she listens.
there was a stretch of time when she first joined the Monastery's teaching team when listening was all she'd had. she's never been a talented speakerā€”Jeralt had been similarly miserly with his wordsā€”and it passed down, summarizing her lessons as succinctly as possible, speaking to the heart of the matter as much as she could.
so it's always been her private joy to listen to her students and others speak so openly on their own chosen subjects, and so freelyā€”and then, trace through the lines of their conversation, back to their own heart.
Dimitri speaks, and she listens. listens past the ghosts that can't be quelled, will never be silent, and tries to listen beyond, to his own keening heart. the miserable weight he labors under, the endless crimes he chains around his own neck, determined to drag himself into hell.
revenge has always played a core role in Dimitri's conversations, and she'd been caught in it, beforeā€”curled around his beliefs like a fist in desperation following Jeralt's death, a rudderless boat attempting to anchor to something, anything, in a sudden, whipping storm. but the grief had passed, as grief tends toā€”and left her with a clear eye over just what remained. the words that guided him came not from long-dead spirits of the past, but from his own guilt-fraught heart, clawing to escape his perceived sinsā€”but how could he? there was no distance he could run, no successes to be found, when he continuously created and moved his own shining goals. with Dimitri as both the architect and the resident, it was a assiduously-crafted hall of torment with a self-assured guarantee of failure, no matter what he did.
but this was a new line, a fragile, tenuous connection to his heart, shivering vulnerable, nearly unseen, in the air between them. like a spider's web frosted heavy with dew, as likely to snap from the weight as it is to disappear after it evaporates. and it begs to be traced, to be followedā€”answered sincerely, handled gently.
she couldā€”wants toā€”tell him he's wrong, that he's already done so much. that he's lived as well as he could be expected to, that he's been hurt, raised to hold more than his fair share for far too long. that he's suffered too much, far too much, enough for a thousand. that what he needs and deserves now is forgiveness, kindness, not just from and towards others, but most importantly, from and towards himself. that it plucks at her own heart, taut with worry, watching him struggle daily against the stubbornly undivided, straining load.
but it's been more than a month, now, since Rodrigue passed. universes away, in stopped time, a group is still surely huddled around that long table, quietly discussing what to do with what remains. outside, the rain pours down in a frozen relief. it's been more than a month, and Dimitri has finally mentioned his name out loud to her, through the pain and loss, the waves of grief threatening to overwhelm him just at the utterance. more than a month, and his final words still rest in her heart.
then, perhaps they also rest in his.
she reaches out, placing a hand on top of his own. gently, gently.]
You deserve to live for what you believe in.