There's a little twist to her expression, the vague irritation that Cerrit had spread what she thought was private, but it does make things easier now. But Fever nods, trying to think of the best place to begin.
"...I am another bound to what my father created me to be. A vessel for his will to be made manifest on the realms, regardless of my say in it, compelled to violence and slaughter in a way that is physical and all consuming, a true need as opposed to want. Those dead by my hand, or by my word, number more than I can say, even if I had my memories to think upon them. My very blood calls to me, asks for more - more death, more corpses, more. All the time, it tells me how to slay those around me. I've done things no soul would be proud of, that only those in the depths of madness might not balk at."
In her mind, this had been more elegant. In reality, it's an awkward tumbling of phrases, unsure if she's getting her point across, but keeping her tone mild. This is not a comparison between them, but laying her cards on the table to offer kinship.
"I am the spawn of the god of murder, and my existence has been tied up in being his. His heir, the herald to lead his armies in the quest to slaughter all life and offer him the dead world. It is what I was born for, to commit atrocities in his name, ceaseless and abhorrent. And even a world away, I know he's still there in me. Every day is a fight against my very nature to live in this place with everyone else, knowing that the truth in the open would set most everyone against me."
A breath.
"So when I say I understand the weight on your shoulders, I mean it."
While Fever speaks, spilling her own guts and those of others onto the coffee table, Dahlia can only listen. Hands folded in her lap as her heart breaks for her friend. A casual friendship before now, the kind shared between people who clearly like each other but do not know each other well. But now that feels irrevocably changed.
Fever, she thinks, is the only person who understands the full breadth of what Dahlia has been through. Perhaps better than even Dahlia does.
Finding no words, Dahlia simply moves to sit beside Fever and pull her into a sideways hug, awkward but meaningful.
There aren't really any words to be said, when one approaches having decided to carefully open up their chest and reveal the contents, knowing how many knives dwell there. But it's important, because she knows the relief, the lifeline that is someone who says they might understand, and then they really and truly do. The shape of Dahlia's burdens is familiar, even if not identical - but Fever hopes she knows, if she speaks her problems, she will not be contradicted. She will be taken as seriously as she could wish to be.
The hug's unexpected, though, and there's a reflex of tension before Fever relaxes, putting her arm around Dahlia in return. The comfort is more welcome than she realizes, and Fever hopes some of it comes through to Dahlia too, even through her many layers.
Eventually, after some time, she finds her voice again.
"Cerrit found me when I was doing what I had to in order to keep myself from tipping over the edge. He...doesn't know all these details. But he guessed enough that he felt confident telling you."
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thethirteenthchild
no subject
Date: 2024-12-15 06:56 pm (UTC)"...I am another bound to what my father created me to be. A vessel for his will to be made manifest on the realms, regardless of my say in it, compelled to violence and slaughter in a way that is physical and all consuming, a true need as opposed to want. Those dead by my hand, or by my word, number more than I can say, even if I had my memories to think upon them. My very blood calls to me, asks for more - more death, more corpses, more. All the time, it tells me how to slay those around me. I've done things no soul would be proud of, that only those in the depths of madness might not balk at."
In her mind, this had been more elegant. In reality, it's an awkward tumbling of phrases, unsure if she's getting her point across, but keeping her tone mild. This is not a comparison between them, but laying her cards on the table to offer kinship.
"I am the spawn of the god of murder, and my existence has been tied up in being his. His heir, the herald to lead his armies in the quest to slaughter all life and offer him the dead world. It is what I was born for, to commit atrocities in his name, ceaseless and abhorrent. And even a world away, I know he's still there in me. Every day is a fight against my very nature to live in this place with everyone else, knowing that the truth in the open would set most everyone against me."
A breath.
"So when I say I understand the weight on your shoulders, I mean it."
no subject
Date: 2025-01-05 04:48 pm (UTC)While Fever speaks, spilling her own guts and those of others onto the coffee table, Dahlia can only listen. Hands folded in her lap as her heart breaks for her friend. A casual friendship before now, the kind shared between people who clearly like each other but do not know each other well. But now that feels irrevocably changed.
Fever, she thinks, is the only person who understands the full breadth of what Dahlia has been through. Perhaps better than even Dahlia does.
Finding no words, Dahlia simply moves to sit beside Fever and pull her into a sideways hug, awkward but meaningful.
no subject
Date: 2025-01-06 01:25 am (UTC)The hug's unexpected, though, and there's a reflex of tension before Fever relaxes, putting her arm around Dahlia in return. The comfort is more welcome than she realizes, and Fever hopes some of it comes through to Dahlia too, even through her many layers.
Eventually, after some time, she finds her voice again.
"Cerrit found me when I was doing what I had to in order to keep myself from tipping over the edge. He...doesn't know all these details. But he guessed enough that he felt confident telling you."