Richard Dickerson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nonvenomous) wrote2034-10-19 09:51 am
nonvenomous) wrote2034-10-19 09:51 am
Inbox - Fade Rift
Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.
Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.
Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.
no subject
[ He utilizes his inspection to veil a long look down past it to what remains of the book in the fire, his bony face serious in the castoff light. Hm, and his right hand comes up to close around Jim’s wrist. Warm, at least.
Warmer, when he starts his muttering. ]
no subject
if he were in the roci, this would be a moment he'd go for the med bay, let the autodoc do its thing, and not have to trouble anyone. calling silas now is equal parts because his hand stings like a bitch as not wanting to answer questions about it later. or, ideally, now.
on closer inspection, the book seems less book than something else; a surviving scrap of a page, or two, is handwritten. which isn't unusual, of course, in thedas; but surely silas knows what holden's handwriting looks like after all these months. ]
no subject
It only takes a few seconds; Silas sniffs when he’s finished, turning Holden’s hand like a piece of toast to be sure it’s evenly done. ]
Would you like to talk about it?
no subject
a flicker of thought, as he glances back to the smoldering fire: she would never have seen them anyway. or he could say something flippant, easily; or some platitude, or pleasantry; or he could say no, because isn't that why he called silas instead of anyone else?
isn't it?
he says, ]
Most days, [ weighted, weary, almost enough to break, ] it's enough to try to help these people, and fight this war.
[ enough to have some purpose, some good to be doing, some reason to justify how he's survived, again and again, where so many haven't. to even imply that the cause sometimes isn't feels unforgivably selfish; there's the saying about old habits, and this is his oldest. the farm, his crew, this place: there's always something he feels he needs to save.
petrana had her counterpoint, the reminder that they owe it to themselves, too, to win the war. but the notion of fighting for his own sake isn't built into him.
he shakes his head, wry. the follow-up to that sentence probably doesn't need to be said. some days, it's enough; other days, it's apparently like this. ]
no subject
His once-over inspection is as talon-scraping-bone close as it is removed, judgment wry through the lines carved in sharp around his mouth for whatever he sees. What a mook. But also: same. ]
Sapient beasts need more than purpose.
[ Speaking from experience. He’s comfortable enough to pat and squeeze at Holden’s shoulder, reassuring -- if nothing else -- in his bedrock certainty. ]
We’re all vulnerable to the void gnawing beneath it.
no subject
it was easier when he didn't think he could have anything else, couldn't imagine what a fuller life here in thedas would look like. what's been harder to grapple with is having a glimpse of it, and knowing he can't have it. though — his disquiet runs deeper than losing naomi, reverberates back from her, from the dreams, from ostwick, from arriving here.
any of which he could articulate, in the face of what is unquestionably kindness, with the grounding weight at his shoulder.
or, as he sets his palms on the desk's surface, ]
Well, I can promise you I'm not planning on burning anything else, void or no.
[ hands or books. first breaking a coffeemaker and now this, eesh. he has, at least, the good grace to look rueful as he says it. ]
no subject
See that you don’t.
[ He can see himself out as he saw himself in, casual in retreat, though he does pause to look back once he’s near enough the door to flip the lock. ]
I’m told some healers here charge for their services.
[ He is not serious. Probably. ]
no subject
truthfully, ]
I'm losing track of how many I owe you, now.
[ which is not, actually, disagreement. ]
no subject