[ Felassan meets her gaze for the sake of not shying away for it, at first, out of much the same impulse that would make him stand steady instead of ducking away from an incoming slap. Not that she means to hurt him, of course. But he could flinch, anyway, at the look in her eyes — warmer and brighter than his or Solas's, and big enough to drift away into — if he were someone else.
Then he does look away, back at what he's doing. He's quiet for several seconds. It isn't stubbornness or reluctance. It's that he spends so much time looking outside of himself, toward other people's emotions and motives, or the mission, or the clouds and the trees, and only on special occasions contemplates the shadowed contents of his own heart. That's how being willing to die for Briala's dreams could sneak up on him, leaving him comfortably certain that he could kill her, too, until the moment he didn't.
So he genuinely needs a moment to decide: ]
Not the way you want me to.
[ She won't turn him away, he reminds himself. Or if she would, lying to her now to cover the cracks will only make it more likely, not less. ]
That's not because I found them frustrating. I did, but I had found the Dalish frustrating for seven hundred years, and I promise nearly all of them survived it. It was a pity, but there were bigger things to worry about. We were going to remake the world.
Now... I don't know. Maybe I could begin with them, but I couldn't stop with them.
[ Maybe that's cryptic. Or maybe the leader of an army will understand the impossibility of feeling the same sorrow for the tenth dead man as the first, or the hundredth as the tenth, or the thousandth as the hundredth, if one intends to ever feel anything but sorrow again. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Then he does look away, back at what he's doing. He's quiet for several seconds. It isn't stubbornness or reluctance. It's that he spends so much time looking outside of himself, toward other people's emotions and motives, or the mission, or the clouds and the trees, and only on special occasions contemplates the shadowed contents of his own heart. That's how being willing to die for Briala's dreams could sneak up on him, leaving him comfortably certain that he could kill her, too, until the moment he didn't.
So he genuinely needs a moment to decide: ]
Not the way you want me to.
[ She won't turn him away, he reminds himself. Or if she would, lying to her now to cover the cracks will only make it more likely, not less. ]
That's not because I found them frustrating. I did, but I had found the Dalish frustrating for seven hundred years, and I promise nearly all of them survived it. It was a pity, but there were bigger things to worry about. We were going to remake the world.
Now... I don't know. Maybe I could begin with them, but I couldn't stop with them.
[ Maybe that's cryptic. Or maybe the leader of an army will understand the impossibility of feeling the same sorrow for the tenth dead man as the first, or the hundredth as the tenth, or the thousandth as the hundredth, if one intends to ever feel anything but sorrow again. ]