[ A compounding of shame at his question, when Shadowheart intends to keep Gale's judgment to herself. But she can't, can she? And that's precisely the problem. ]
Gale thinks my handling of the binding ceremony was foolish. Reckless.
[ Her words, but she could read them in his messages easily enough. ]
On the one hand, he can't entirely argue. On the other, that's at least in part because he has no grounds to, four people out there with their lives bleeding into him, all of it by his own design. ]
I'll draft him a certificate. Most level-headed at the impromptu obligatory wound-giving ritual. Or perhaps least likely to make a mistake under the watchful eyes of a village full of expectant fanatics who would prefer you dead or outcast than alone?
[ It's not that he begrudges anyone the surety and safety of existing bonds. But he does resent Gale's intrusion, the impact it's having on her, how unhelpful it is when nothing can now be taken back. ]
He didn't offer you the safety of skin or a knife, or intervene when there was still time to change the outcome. If he only has criticisms for you now, maybe you should give him some time to remember he's your friend, not your father.
[ It's easy for Shadowheart to slip into paranoia here, the mistrust nurtured in her at the Cloister. Easy for her to allow Stephen's pointed remarks about Gale to mirror her own feelings, put pressure on the existing bruise.
But there are things Stephen doesn't know about her that Gale does. She doesn't know how much of her memories he's seen in the wake of their bonds, when the ones that come through from him and Tony are often fragments without context, feelings and visions missing the whole picture.
The response comes slowly, shame nestled inside it too. ]
I was taken from my parents when I was young. Raised by a cult to follow the Goddess of Loss, my memories stolen from me. My choices, my autonomy.
Made to believe we were only safe and beloved when we enacted her will.
The wound on the back of my hand belongs to her. I still belong to her, I think. Even here. [ Maybe especially here. ]
New information slips like poison ivy through the cracks of his surety, twists his ire in another direction, yet more vines branching off into sorrow for her, fury for her, another god added to the list of things bigger than him. Though this one not his to best.
The parallels, though, are clear. A cult. Stolen choice and autonomy. Love secured only through devotion to belief: through practice of it. ]
It doesn't sound like you want to be hers anymore.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Gale thinks my handling of the binding ceremony was foolish. Reckless.
[ Her words, but she could read them in his messages easily enough. ]
He's right.
no subject
On the one hand, he can't entirely argue. On the other, that's at least in part because he has no grounds to, four people out there with their lives bleeding into him, all of it by his own design. ]
I'll draft him a certificate. Most level-headed at the impromptu obligatory wound-giving ritual. Or perhaps least likely to make a mistake under the watchful eyes of a village full of expectant fanatics who would prefer you dead or outcast than alone?
I'm open to suggestions.
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I think this is
easier, for him.
He and Astarion are so certain of each other.
no subject
[ It's not that he begrudges anyone the surety and safety of existing bonds. But he does resent Gale's intrusion, the impact it's having on her, how unhelpful it is when nothing can now be taken back. ]
He didn't offer you the safety of skin or a knife, or intervene when there was still time to change the outcome. If he only has criticisms for you now, maybe you should give him some time to remember he's your friend, not your father.
no subject
But there are things Stephen doesn't know about her that Gale does. She doesn't know how much of her memories he's seen in the wake of their bonds, when the ones that come through from him and Tony are often fragments without context, feelings and visions missing the whole picture.
The response comes slowly, shame nestled inside it too. ]
I was taken from my parents when I was young. Raised by a cult to follow the Goddess of Loss, my memories stolen from me. My choices, my autonomy.
Made to believe we were only safe and beloved when we enacted her will.
The wound on the back of my hand belongs to her. I still belong to her, I think. Even here. [ Maybe especially here. ]
no subject
New information slips like poison ivy through the cracks of his surety, twists his ire in another direction, yet more vines branching off into sorrow for her, fury for her, another god added to the list of things bigger than him. Though this one not his to best.
The parallels, though, are clear. A cult. Stolen choice and autonomy. Love secured only through devotion to belief: through practice of it. ]
It doesn't sound like you want to be hers anymore.
no subject
[ And there are thickets of feeling around whose she wants to be, here. The way sheβs come to think mine about Stephen and Tony, even Saber.
But thereβs a small gap where she can see more clearly through the tangle, even though it narrows to a pinprickβs worth of light. ]
I want to belong to myself.