The point of her pen wavers, touching absently down onto the page before floating automatically up again. She has spent a lifetime attempting to avoid irrelevant spots on paper; this give and flex in his wrist is nearly automatic and entirely thoughtless.
"It seems Mister Holden has misrepresented my theory to you."
With a flick of the pen, she resumes drawing her schematic.
"I see where the confusion lies, of course. It is the part where I suggested to him that we are the product of a dream our true selves made which slipped through the fade. I can see how he heard that and interpreted it as us being—illusions, I suppose. While our true selves, our original selves, remain safely where they began. Their world goes on with them in it, and nothing we do here and anything which happens to us effects them whatsoever.
"But the moment we crossed the Veil, we became real and tangible and independent of those people. We are copies. Unstable ones, I grant you—connected in some way to the place from which we came or to our originals in some fashion, even—but not ghosts or spirits. In which case, I suppose I can see how there might be some reason behind the things which happen to us here being irrelevant. They are to our originals. But they matter very much to us as we are here. After all, there is little else that ever will. What's more, what we do is of every importance. Because eventually you and I will leave this place and someone else will have to manage after."
Wysteria punctuates a sentence. With a decisive flick of the wrist, the pen in her hand evaporates from between her fingers.
"Careful," she warns, leaning forward to pass him the note. On it is a basic drawing of the network of caves which they will find waiting below Kirkwall for them, and a series of runes which are etched in the largest buried rooms of the caverns. "The ink is still wet."
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Date: 2021-03-04 07:18 am (UTC)"It seems Mister Holden has misrepresented my theory to you."
With a flick of the pen, she resumes drawing her schematic.
"I see where the confusion lies, of course. It is the part where I suggested to him that we are the product of a dream our true selves made which slipped through the fade. I can see how he heard that and interpreted it as us being—illusions, I suppose. While our true selves, our original selves, remain safely where they began. Their world goes on with them in it, and nothing we do here and anything which happens to us effects them whatsoever.
"But the moment we crossed the Veil, we became real and tangible and independent of those people. We are copies. Unstable ones, I grant you—connected in some way to the place from which we came or to our originals in some fashion, even—but not ghosts or spirits. In which case, I suppose I can see how there might be some reason behind the things which happen to us here being irrelevant. They are to our originals. But they matter very much to us as we are here. After all, there is little else that ever will. What's more, what we do is of every importance. Because eventually you and I will leave this place and someone else will have to manage after."
Wysteria punctuates a sentence. With a decisive flick of the wrist, the pen in her hand evaporates from between her fingers.
"Careful," she warns, leaning forward to pass him the note. On it is a basic drawing of the network of caves which they will find waiting below Kirkwall for them, and a series of runes which are etched in the largest buried rooms of the caverns. "The ink is still wet."