Harper
Harper had fallen into the depths of debauchery for precisely his touch-starvation, and even something as platonic and childlike as holding Maea's hand helps settle something off-kilter in his chest, making it all the easier to hang on her every word. He's yet to learn how to stop living for other people, how to stop serving them. It's difficult to remind himself, because how could this be wrong? It doesn't feel wrong, and yet he knows his own silence, his need to put her first, is damning - no matter the reasoning.
But right now he just wants to stand in her shadow and try to catch the glow coming off of her, like it might grant him a taste of her success. "I'm glad I was able to help so much," he murmurs, because at the time, it had not felt so grand. He can't conceive of his actions having such large ripples of effect. He speaks it softly, so she might not get distracted, and he can almost feel the weight in his own bones when she speaks so reverently about Dygra.
"Blood and death are as natural as any other cycle older than human morals," he points out, almost scholarly - as if she doesn't live it daily now as an Ancient. "Chaos can be a devastating hurricane, or a riot for justice. Death can be murder or an animal feeding its young. I'm sure most of the hang-ups around her realm are creations of man." Harper shrugs one shoulder, bumping it against hers by proxy. For all he stands for the preservation of life, Harper's own hands are bloodied, and he'd had to come to terms with his sins in his own time. Dygra does not confuse him after so many years of introspection - even if that definition of belonging is entirely personal. "All that matters is how you feel about her." And part of him is relieved, grateful, that Maea has proven herself capable of loving more than just Ludo. He hopes it will bring her greater peace now that she's Ancient.
But right now he just wants to stand in her shadow and try to catch the glow coming off of her, like it might grant him a taste of her success. "I'm glad I was able to help so much," he murmurs, because at the time, it had not felt so grand. He can't conceive of his actions having such large ripples of effect. He speaks it softly, so she might not get distracted, and he can almost feel the weight in his own bones when she speaks so reverently about Dygra.
"Blood and death are as natural as any other cycle older than human morals," he points out, almost scholarly - as if she doesn't live it daily now as an Ancient. "Chaos can be a devastating hurricane, or a riot for justice. Death can be murder or an animal feeding its young. I'm sure most of the hang-ups around her realm are creations of man." Harper shrugs one shoulder, bumping it against hers by proxy. For all he stands for the preservation of life, Harper's own hands are bloodied, and he'd had to come to terms with his sins in his own time. Dygra does not confuse him after so many years of introspection - even if that definition of belonging is entirely personal. "All that matters is how you feel about her." And part of him is relieved, grateful, that Maea has proven herself capable of loving more than just Ludo. He hopes it will bring her greater peace now that she's Ancient.
I cut my teeth on second-hand sentiments
you can't trust a thing I say
you can't trust a thing I say
