PHOEBE
”You don’t get a choice, Jata, it’s an illness, it doesn’t care if you do or don’t intend for me to die!” she snapped at him. Men could be so pig-headed, thinking they could change the world just because they willed it. It just wasn’t the case. Death didn’t care. It was indiscriminate. It came whether it was welcome or not, and this illness just speeded up the process.And as he turned to her and spoke more, she grew increasingly angry because he was right. All of his actions said the words he couldn’t speak. And yet it made her increasingly angry for no reason. Of course he was right. He was always right, even when he wasn’t – that he was now just made it worse. How come she was never right? How come Frey said what she felt mattered and yet it never did to anyone else? ”Do you love me?” she said, the tiniest hint of herself showing through, her insecurities reaching for closeness even while her rage pushed him away. But the tiny hint of herself was quickly obscured by the force of her anger, pushing and prodding at the things she knew he struggled with, goading him on in an uncharacteristic fashion.
That he worried she would regret more with him though? That clearly hit a nerve as she lifted her head to stare at him wide-eyed, as if he had just spoken a foreign language.”You nobles really are stupid.” she snapped at him, brow furrowing. ”I might get mad at you or frustrated or impatient or disappointed, but I won’t ever regret you or anything that comes from you.” she said, sounding an equal mix of hurt and angry now.
I can hold the weight of worlds
if that's what you need
be your everything
