Love mends even the broken parts
As the summoner had suspected, the other man could hardly be impartial or unbiased here. No matter what, it seemed, Remi would never stop trying to be in the Launceleyn’s life. Loren could keep trying to push the alchemist away, keep fighting that fact. Or the summoner could just accept it and allow the other man to lead them where he willed, trust that Remi knew enough about happiness and joy and love that it would be enough for both of them.
Or, perhaps, just perhaps Loren could chart a third course, even if he didn’t know what that road might be or where it would take him. But he wanted to find out.
He didn’t respond to the other man, at least not right away. The Launceleyn knew he’d probably only have one chance to say these words to the alchemist in a way that someday, somehow, eventually, maybe could let them both find peace with one another. Friendship. Maybe even love, of a sort. However, Loren knew he was an imperfect communicator at the best of times, and this was certainly not one of them.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, in the threshold of his home, on the threshold of something much larger and completely unknown. His face remained mostly expressionless. And his voice, when he finally spoke, had almost no inflection.
But it was his voice. For once, it was his voice, and no one else's. ”My whole life, I’ve tried to be what others wanted me to be, or at least who I thought others wanted and needed me to be. Always tried to shape myself so I could put others before myself. My family. The few friends I made. The even fewer people I loved." He paused, but knew he had something else to add to the list. Someone else. "You.” He stood there, one hand on the door, and he couldn’t say if he was preparing to open or close it. ”I just want to find out who I am.” Without anyone pushing him or pulling him or expecting anything more than he was able to give. Without everyone constantly offering help he didn't need. With space and time to reflect. Maybe not on his own, not entirely, but certainly finding his own path to follow.
A fresh start, perhaps, to finish this metamorphosis he’d begun, because even he knew he wouldn’t remain this angry bitter thing forever. This time, though, he’d decide when he was ready to emerge, and what shape he’d take when he did.
Maybe he'd be a moth, maybe he'd a butterfly, maybe he'd be something no one had ever seen before, but no one else could make that decision for him.
Or, perhaps, just perhaps Loren could chart a third course, even if he didn’t know what that road might be or where it would take him. But he wanted to find out.
He didn’t respond to the other man, at least not right away. The Launceleyn knew he’d probably only have one chance to say these words to the alchemist in a way that someday, somehow, eventually, maybe could let them both find peace with one another. Friendship. Maybe even love, of a sort. However, Loren knew he was an imperfect communicator at the best of times, and this was certainly not one of them.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, in the threshold of his home, on the threshold of something much larger and completely unknown. His face remained mostly expressionless. And his voice, when he finally spoke, had almost no inflection.
But it was his voice. For once, it was his voice, and no one else's. ”My whole life, I’ve tried to be what others wanted me to be, or at least who I thought others wanted and needed me to be. Always tried to shape myself so I could put others before myself. My family. The few friends I made. The even fewer people I loved." He paused, but knew he had something else to add to the list. Someone else. "You.” He stood there, one hand on the door, and he couldn’t say if he was preparing to open or close it. ”I just want to find out who I am.” Without anyone pushing him or pulling him or expecting anything more than he was able to give. Without everyone constantly offering help he didn't need. With space and time to reflect. Maybe not on his own, not entirely, but certainly finding his own path to follow.
A fresh start, perhaps, to finish this metamorphosis he’d begun, because even he knew he wouldn’t remain this angry bitter thing forever. This time, though, he’d decide when he was ready to emerge, and what shape he’d take when he did.
Maybe he'd be a moth, maybe he'd a butterfly, maybe he'd be something no one had ever seen before, but no one else could make that decision for him.
loren
