...That is why you spoke with such disdain. Why sentiment earned little more than your apparent contempt.
[More the coward, he, for having believed it. Easier to settle in and be alone, for them to have continued as they had before without changing it. Had he pressed, had he remained, had he not left Isaac alone for a month and some- not abandoned him...perhaps they might have had something.
And perhaps it would be cleaner. Neater. He would not need to censor himself around Isaac. He would not need to explain the glib manner in which he spoke of death, loss, and pain. They were equally well versed in such things. It was their bread and butter, their profession, their purpose, the very strains of it writ into their bones. They handled it differently, true, Isaac gripping and spitting anger like fire, devouring what he felt he deserved and leaving ruin in his wake- Zevran flitting along, ever playful, ever wandering, carrying bits of where he'd been and what he'd lived as long as it suited him before collecting something new, much like the wind.
Had that shadow spirit not claimed him so thoroughly, Zevran could imagine easily Isaac resplendent in flame, wings large and as red as his hair.
Not himself, he'd told Jack. And still not quite the man he knew.]
I...may not be able to be what you might have wished, before. But I will not vanish if I can help it, Isaac. This I swear.
[His fingers tighten around Isaac's, tugging that hand from his back to his chest. His beating heart that Isaac had put an end to when he suffered. In killing him he gained Zevran's unending loyalty- only an assassin would look at it in such a way, he supposes. But it was what it was, they are what they are and it fits for them.
He's content to forgive, to apologize for no remaining, to offer anything until he sees that pouch. The true earrings.]
...I thought you had forged them into something else.
action
[More the coward, he, for having believed it. Easier to settle in and be alone, for them to have continued as they had before without changing it. Had he pressed, had he remained, had he not left Isaac alone for a month and some- not abandoned him...perhaps they might have had something.
And perhaps it would be cleaner. Neater. He would not need to censor himself around Isaac. He would not need to explain the glib manner in which he spoke of death, loss, and pain. They were equally well versed in such things. It was their bread and butter, their profession, their purpose, the very strains of it writ into their bones. They handled it differently, true, Isaac gripping and spitting anger like fire, devouring what he felt he deserved and leaving ruin in his wake- Zevran flitting along, ever playful, ever wandering, carrying bits of where he'd been and what he'd lived as long as it suited him before collecting something new, much like the wind.
Had that shadow spirit not claimed him so thoroughly, Zevran could imagine easily Isaac resplendent in flame, wings large and as red as his hair.
Not himself, he'd told Jack. And still not quite the man he knew.]
I...may not be able to be what you might have wished, before. But I will not vanish if I can help it, Isaac. This I swear.
[His fingers tighten around Isaac's, tugging that hand from his back to his chest. His beating heart that Isaac had put an end to when he suffered. In killing him he gained Zevran's unending loyalty- only an assassin would look at it in such a way, he supposes. But it was what it was, they are what they are and it fits for them.
He's content to forgive, to apologize for no remaining, to offer anything until he sees that pouch. The true earrings.]
...I thought you had forged them into something else.