[ Jill had told him about this; Hugo's attack, and way that he had later seemed so certain that Cid was the one who had killed his beloved Benedikta. She'd told him of the living and the dead, and everything she and Clive had done for both in the aftermath of it all.
He understands, in a purely tactical sense, why it would be devastating to their cause for his death to seem as if it had come on the heels of such an attack. If he thinks on it, he can see the whole conversation spinning out, how Clive would see the need around him and determine that this was the path forward and through.
Dead men don't get to decide how the living carry on. Perhaps if he was the ghost that Clive had been carrying all these years, he would have a more perfect answer to that anger. Perhaps if circumstances were different, he would find it in himself. Instead, Clive's words seem to find every vulnerable spot between his ribs to twist a knife.
Cid is the one who turns away first, swearing under his breath as he pats himself down for a cigar. When he looks at Clive again, he's still scowling. ] You were supposed to tell them that I chose you with my very last fucking breath, and if they gave a shit about me, they ought to trust my final judgement. If history remembered me only as a waymark on the path that led to you, that would have been enough. I understand why you did what you did — you carried my name in death better than I ever did in life — but I wanted something better for you. I wanted —
[ I wanted you to live. It's a small and selfish wish. All of the good that Clive has done, all of the good that Cid had dearly hoped he would see... And instead they're here, two of a kind, living on borrowed time.
Cid breathes in a lungful of smoke. The distant rumble of thunder seems to echo in his bones. ] You know what — it doesn't bloody matter what wanted, does it? It's all said and done, and now you've found yourself a matching grave to lay in. If you're satisfied, I'll be having my name back.
no subject
He understands, in a purely tactical sense, why it would be devastating to their cause for his death to seem as if it had come on the heels of such an attack. If he thinks on it, he can see the whole conversation spinning out, how Clive would see the need around him and determine that this was the path forward and through.
Dead men don't get to decide how the living carry on. Perhaps if he was the ghost that Clive had been carrying all these years, he would have a more perfect answer to that anger. Perhaps if circumstances were different, he would find it in himself. Instead, Clive's words seem to find every vulnerable spot between his ribs to twist a knife.
Cid is the one who turns away first, swearing under his breath as he pats himself down for a cigar. When he looks at Clive again, he's still scowling. ] You were supposed to tell them that I chose you with my very last fucking breath, and if they gave a shit about me, they ought to trust my final judgement. If history remembered me only as a waymark on the path that led to you, that would have been enough. I understand why you did what you did — you carried my name in death better than I ever did in life — but I wanted something better for you. I wanted —
[ I wanted you to live. It's a small and selfish wish. All of the good that Clive has done, all of the good that Cid had dearly hoped he would see... And instead they're here, two of a kind, living on borrowed time.
Cid breathes in a lungful of smoke. The distant rumble of thunder seems to echo in his bones. ] You know what — it doesn't bloody matter what wanted, does it? It's all said and done, and now you've found yourself a matching grave to lay in. If you're satisfied, I'll be having my name back.