How was pain gentled? By hiding it, primarily; by denying it, by masking it with a different pain, or by foisting it onto someone else. She searches his face as he presents his assurance, which is certainly more honest than anyone in the world would ever like to confess, but she does not press for clarification on how he finds his peace. Despite the easy charm of his smile and the bladeless tone of his voice, she is certain she does not wish to know.
"Do they call it freedom?" She has witnessed, after all, those mercies: cages built by those with the means to build them, and those they housed, those who had no choice. A gesture of generosity, the commanding mind might think, but for those within, the tales were often less glamorous. Good intentions did not always lead to the kind-hearted outcomes they had envisioned. When he turns to face her, he is close enough that she can skip her gaze over him again, swiftly, without knowing quite what she is looking for. Without being entirely aware of it, she reaches to brush the tips of her fingers over what looks like a stray thread from the destitute pants he has been given, the same as her own. Decades spent relishing the aesthetic of masterfully-tailored clothing has left her with an ingrained attention to these details.
"Yet they put us here, for some reason. They allow us to keep dying and living." The stars, the single omnipotent creator, or the plentiful gods worshipped by some; there must have been some divining force that was responsible for their breathing at all. What they wrecked upon that canvas is their own doing, he is right - if the gods tossed them like seeds across the sky, it was on its own that humanity had harvested cruelty. She does chime a laugh, though, at his lighter suggestion, and at the fable that goes with it. If it's true, she will take it as a sign of promise.
"Titles mean everything, unfortunately. We always wear them, no matter who we are." Son, daughter, brother, mother. Queen, traitor, hero, failure. A playful flick comes to her lips regardless. "You beheld such a divine act, and yet you're skeptical of the gods? I would say such well-placed bird droppings are all we could hope to ask for. We can't be alone."
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"Do they call it freedom?" She has witnessed, after all, those mercies: cages built by those with the means to build them, and those they housed, those who had no choice. A gesture of generosity, the commanding mind might think, but for those within, the tales were often less glamorous. Good intentions did not always lead to the kind-hearted outcomes they had envisioned. When he turns to face her, he is close enough that she can skip her gaze over him again, swiftly, without knowing quite what she is looking for. Without being entirely aware of it, she reaches to brush the tips of her fingers over what looks like a stray thread from the destitute pants he has been given, the same as her own. Decades spent relishing the aesthetic of masterfully-tailored clothing has left her with an ingrained attention to these details.
"Yet they put us here, for some reason. They allow us to keep dying and living." The stars, the single omnipotent creator, or the plentiful gods worshipped by some; there must have been some divining force that was responsible for their breathing at all. What they wrecked upon that canvas is their own doing, he is right - if the gods tossed them like seeds across the sky, it was on its own that humanity had harvested cruelty. She does chime a laugh, though, at his lighter suggestion, and at the fable that goes with it. If it's true, she will take it as a sign of promise.
"Titles mean everything, unfortunately. We always wear them, no matter who we are." Son, daughter, brother, mother. Queen, traitor, hero, failure. A playful flick comes to her lips regardless. "You beheld such a divine act, and yet you're skeptical of the gods? I would say such well-placed bird droppings are all we could hope to ask for. We can't be alone."