He did not protest her assertion; he knew that it was true, after all, and had never denied it, no matter what Safrin thought. Humans were at fault... but he still held stubbornly to the belief that they weren't the only ones at fault. There was more than enough blame to go around, but Safrin's cold denial of her involvement had shaken him badly, and he flinched at Amalia's words, even if not for the reasons she might guess.
Grandmother Chandrakant had been wise, and he appreciated her wisdom usually... at least, as far as it applied to other people. It was for others to see the wholeness of their pictures, the worthiness of their souls. He was far too aware of the red splashed across his canvas, however, knowing it was there no matter how desperately he tried to paint over it, and hide it from others. Isuma shivered in Amalia's lap, reacting to the way his despair seemed to coil and tighten around him with wicked tenacity, and the gryphlet tried to bury her face against the baker's stomach as if to hide.
It was her next words that forced him to listen, the laugh breaking through some of his fugue by how out of place it was in the darkness and guilt-stricken loneliness he had lost himself in. It was bright, and loving, and brave, and it proved more than words alone how sincere she was. It forced him to pause in his wallowing, and to really think about what she had said.
But... he tried, lapsing back into silence as he found no flaw in her logic. But... you and Rory deserve so much more than what I am, he said at last, with a soul-deep sincerity that echoed through the mental link as he tried to make her understand. What I did, before I was brought here... can never be forgiven. I am not the man you think I am. I only ever pretended to be him, because I thought... I thought... if I pretended long enough then the lie might become true.
I was wrong, he ended, three simple words, spoken quietly in Amalia's mind but with a quiet sense of mourning for the illusion that had been shattered and the hope that died.
Grandmother Chandrakant had been wise, and he appreciated her wisdom usually... at least, as far as it applied to other people. It was for others to see the wholeness of their pictures, the worthiness of their souls. He was far too aware of the red splashed across his canvas, however, knowing it was there no matter how desperately he tried to paint over it, and hide it from others. Isuma shivered in Amalia's lap, reacting to the way his despair seemed to coil and tighten around him with wicked tenacity, and the gryphlet tried to bury her face against the baker's stomach as if to hide.
It was her next words that forced him to listen, the laugh breaking through some of his fugue by how out of place it was in the darkness and guilt-stricken loneliness he had lost himself in. It was bright, and loving, and brave, and it proved more than words alone how sincere she was. It forced him to pause in his wallowing, and to really think about what she had said.
But... he tried, lapsing back into silence as he found no flaw in her logic. But... you and Rory deserve so much more than what I am, he said at last, with a soul-deep sincerity that echoed through the mental link as he tried to make her understand. What I did, before I was brought here... can never be forgiven. I am not the man you think I am. I only ever pretended to be him, because I thought... I thought... if I pretended long enough then the lie might become true.
I was wrong, he ended, three simple words, spoken quietly in Amalia's mind but with a quiet sense of mourning for the illusion that had been shattered and the hope that died.
