WHO: Athessa, Madi, and YOU WHAT: post-Dream catch-all WHEN: after part 2 of dream time WHERE: The Gallows/Kirkwall NOTES: tags will be slow, brain still bad
She'd really like to slap him. Tell him off for presuming to tell her how she feels or thinks or what she believes. Maybe storm out and yell, too. But she doesn't indulge in that want, choosing instead to simply let the hurt show in her expression.
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm still here," she asserts, and some degree of disdain for the spirit that concocted the dream creeps into the curl of her lips. She pushes up to standing and gestures loosely while she lists off the differences between real life and the dream. "You haven't lost an eye, Isaac still has his whole face, Bastien's not dead, I don't have a baby, and we're not in a fuckin' swamp. Gods, it's like you seek out any opportunity to believe the worst about everyone, no matter how far you have to stretch!"
But Byerly shakes his head. What she's listing off is just events - things they dreamed up having happened. Or things that the spirit decided to inflict upon them before the dream even started. What he's discussing is feelings. The things they did and said. She stood there in that room and as good as called him a monster. She declared that she would try to see him removed from his position. It's -
Well, it's a lack of faith. Every time they get here, it feels like, it's because Athessa looks to him and sees someone evil. Every time. How often must they do this? And Maker, maybe it's not fair - maybe with all she's suffered, it's not fair of him to want trust from her. But every time, it comes as such a surprise. Every time, it's like another deep cut in a body already bleeding.
And what kind of fool are you, Byerly, to keep yourself vulnerable to that blade? He let her see too much of his heart too early, too recklessly. And now he can't just dismiss her feelings about him. Idiot.
He runs a hand over his face. "Who do you think I am, Athessa? What kind of person?"
"As if what I think even matters," she scoffs. "You've made it clear by now you think I'm a bad judge of character. If I tell you you're a good person, you'll argue against it or try to twist anything I say to prove that I'm wrong or think the worst of you! And lemme tell ya, if I thought you weren't worth caring about I sure as hell wouldn't be here arguing with you."
He shakes his head. "Good person, bad person - those words don't mean anything. Good people and bad people don't exist." He takes a breath. "What do you think I care about? Why do you think I do what I do?"
There's a moment of stillness in response to that answer. Just complete stillness as he controls his reaction to what she just said. And then he takes in a breath, and then lets it out, and he nods.
"Very well, then. If that is the level of care that you have for the question, then I suppose this is how things will be."
What starts as an exasperated sigh turns into a frustrated groan and she scrubs over her face with her hands. Why is this so fucking difficult?!
"If I didn't care, I wouldn't be here trying to reassure you of anything. How about, maybe, you just tell me what you want me to know? I've said, haven't I, that I'm not good at this. Im not a mind reader, and I'm not Baz, I don't know what questions you want me to ask!"
She sits heavily back in the chair she vacated only moments ago, gesturing for him to explain himself.
"So go on, then. Tell me what you care about. Help me understand how I managed to fuck up and hurt you again."
He still doesn't move for a moment. He still remains still. Because, Maker, the way she's acting, like this is the heaviest of burdens, like the only purpose of asking is to indulge a child demanding to know why he's not getting a sweet...
But. "You don't have to be good at it," he says, his voice stiff. "You merely have to - " But no. There's no point in arguing. Instead, he says, his voice rough, "You forced me to hold a knife to your throat. In that dream. And you may say it meant nothing, that that wasn't you, but I still remember the feel of it. And I was drunk, and my hand could have slipped, and then I'd remember the feel of you dying. By my hand." Rougher still, "There was some part of your mind that wanted me to feel that."
A swallow. His hand grips his pen tightly. He doesn't look at her.
"I don't...I want to win this war. I want to keep Corypheus from enslaving people like you, from sacrificing them. From bleeding out my people in his rituals. From seeding them with lyrium. I want to help. I'm not some sadist. I don't do this because I like the power." And then, rougher still, "And if someone like you doesn't understand that, then I might as well throw myself out the fucking window right now."
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"In case you haven't noticed, I'm still here," she asserts, and some degree of disdain for the spirit that concocted the dream creeps into the curl of her lips. She pushes up to standing and gestures loosely while she lists off the differences between real life and the dream. "You haven't lost an eye, Isaac still has his whole face, Bastien's not dead, I don't have a baby, and we're not in a fuckin' swamp. Gods, it's like you seek out any opportunity to believe the worst about everyone, no matter how far you have to stretch!"
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Well, it's a lack of faith. Every time they get here, it feels like, it's because Athessa looks to him and sees someone evil. Every time. How often must they do this? And Maker, maybe it's not fair - maybe with all she's suffered, it's not fair of him to want trust from her. But every time, it comes as such a surprise. Every time, it's like another deep cut in a body already bleeding.
And what kind of fool are you, Byerly, to keep yourself vulnerable to that blade? He let her see too much of his heart too early, too recklessly. And now he can't just dismiss her feelings about him. Idiot.
He runs a hand over his face. "Who do you think I am, Athessa? What kind of person?"
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"Very well, then. If that is the level of care that you have for the question, then I suppose this is how things will be."
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"If I didn't care, I wouldn't be here trying to reassure you of anything. How about, maybe, you just tell me what you want me to know? I've said, haven't I, that I'm not good at this. Im not a mind reader, and I'm not Baz, I don't know what questions you want me to ask!"
She sits heavily back in the chair she vacated only moments ago, gesturing for him to explain himself.
"So go on, then. Tell me what you care about. Help me understand how I managed to fuck up and hurt you again."
cw suicide
But. "You don't have to be good at it," he says, his voice stiff. "You merely have to - " But no. There's no point in arguing. Instead, he says, his voice rough, "You forced me to hold a knife to your throat. In that dream. And you may say it meant nothing, that that wasn't you, but I still remember the feel of it. And I was drunk, and my hand could have slipped, and then I'd remember the feel of you dying. By my hand." Rougher still, "There was some part of your mind that wanted me to feel that."
A swallow. His hand grips his pen tightly. He doesn't look at her.
"I don't...I want to win this war. I want to keep Corypheus from enslaving people like you, from sacrificing them. From bleeding out my people in his rituals. From seeding them with lyrium. I want to help. I'm not some sadist. I don't do this because I like the power." And then, rougher still, "And if someone like you doesn't understand that, then I might as well throw myself out the fucking window right now."