(Somewhere, still compressed under the onslaught of centuries' worth of false memories dropped into an already-overburdened mind, still trying to sort through them all and make sense of them all enough to get back out, Augustine the First is desperately wishing that Alfred were here — and he doesn't know, when no snake forms in the space beside or between them, or wrapped around his shoulders, if the fault (that he does not) belongs to this pocket-dimension and the way it has overwritten him, or to himself, and the way Lord Deathless would never think to summon a snake and call it brother.)
"'Compassion and tolerance are not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength,'" the lord beside him recites, but... distantly, almost absently, as if a reflex from a catechism. There's a flicker-quick glance at Ize, from the corner of his own colorless eyes (and which is more disquieting, to one who would seem to study this most ancient of wood-elves — the sudden bursts of speed, here as in battle, or the realization that, in his youth, his eyes must have been as vibrant as the teal feathers growing amidst the electrum that looks like hair?), before he adds, "It's troubling indeed to think you've been surrounded by those who are in such haste to discard others, or denigrate their value to those who do perceive it."
And, in a stronger voice, brisker, whether or not anyone else has come close enough to hear it, "No. He would not have called it weird, or stupid, or unnecessary, to try to help or save another — but."
Augustin reaches for Ize again, turning as he does, but barely touches him — the talon at one fingertip very, very gently preens a feather back into place, next to Ize's ear. "He would also remember that each of us makes our own choices, in every moment; when an offer of compassionate help is rejected, even if the consequences for the sufferer are severe, it is not the fault of the one who tried to help; he would not seek to accrue more blame, or guilt, than he truly earned."
There's a faint sound in the air, then, a little more melodic than the wind and ship have heretofore managed: a reedy little chuckle, although his expression barely shows any humor.
"He was always much more patient and wise than I, after all."
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"'Compassion and tolerance are not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength,'" the lord beside him recites, but... distantly, almost absently, as if a reflex from a catechism. There's a flicker-quick glance at Ize, from the corner of his own colorless eyes (and which is more disquieting, to one who would seem to study this most ancient of wood-elves — the sudden bursts of speed, here as in battle, or the realization that, in his youth, his eyes must have been as vibrant as the teal feathers growing amidst the electrum that looks like hair?), before he adds, "It's troubling indeed to think you've been surrounded by those who are in such haste to discard others, or denigrate their value to those who do perceive it."
And, in a stronger voice, brisker, whether or not anyone else has come close enough to hear it, "No. He would not have called it weird, or stupid, or unnecessary, to try to help or save another — but."
Augustin reaches for Ize again, turning as he does, but barely touches him — the talon at one fingertip very, very gently preens a feather back into place, next to Ize's ear. "He would also remember that each of us makes our own choices, in every moment; when an offer of compassionate help is rejected, even if the consequences for the sufferer are severe, it is not the fault of the one who tried to help; he would not seek to accrue more blame, or guilt, than he truly earned."
There's a faint sound in the air, then, a little more melodic than the wind and ship have heretofore managed: a reedy little chuckle, although his expression barely shows any humor.
"He was always much more patient and wise than I, after all."