[ It's simultaneously a lovely thing to hear and exactly what he was afraid of. Which isn't fair. If that had been the choice, if the spirit had asked him to give up either his facility with thievery or his—well, his dream of facility with a pen, at least—he'd have given up the thieving. The spying. He already tried to trade in the daggers for books on his own, before the war pulled him back in, and it's still want he wants, in some other form, something that means more and bores him less than printing vanity projects for the wealthy, but—
But it's an awful thing, admitting he can't do everything. That maybe he can't write by day and climb through upstairs windows at night. And the awfulness of that seeps into the future, when he pictures it, turning his very own most cherished dream into an endless series of desks.
He might not be able to stomach it. He might be back in the training yard tomorrow, throwing knives, scheming up ways to minimize the risk enough to tell By there's nothing to worry about. He hasn't made any promises.
For now he says, ]
Thank you.
[ He means it. It really is a lovely thing to hear. In any other context he'd be glowing and bolstered instead of feeling small and cut off—and it's hardly sporting to ask Byerly to overcome the context.
So. ]
You are curing yourself, I think. Maybe it helps that you think of me, and it reminds you to think of the rest of them, but I haven't done anything except stand about being common while you loved me. Your sweet heart is doing all the work.
no subject
No.
[ It's simultaneously a lovely thing to hear and exactly what he was afraid of. Which isn't fair. If that had been the choice, if the spirit had asked him to give up either his facility with thievery or his—well, his dream of facility with a pen, at least—he'd have given up the thieving. The spying. He already tried to trade in the daggers for books on his own, before the war pulled him back in, and it's still want he wants, in some other form, something that means more and bores him less than printing vanity projects for the wealthy, but—
But it's an awful thing, admitting he can't do everything. That maybe he can't write by day and climb through upstairs windows at night. And the awfulness of that seeps into the future, when he pictures it, turning his very own most cherished dream into an endless series of desks.
He might not be able to stomach it. He might be back in the training yard tomorrow, throwing knives, scheming up ways to minimize the risk enough to tell By there's nothing to worry about. He hasn't made any promises.
For now he says, ]
Thank you.
[ He means it. It really is a lovely thing to hear. In any other context he'd be glowing and bolstered instead of feeling small and cut off—and it's hardly sporting to ask Byerly to overcome the context.
So. ]
You are curing yourself, I think. Maybe it helps that you think of me, and it reminds you to think of the rest of them, but I haven't done anything except stand about being common while you loved me. Your sweet heart is doing all the work.