[Palamedes blinks, then, oh; right. That. He sighs, and then can't decide between nodding or shrugging and just sort of bobs his head side to side; yes, alright, this is a fair point to bring up. The Friend from the Seventh - and that particular tragedy still stings, but still. Fair.]
Not exactly. We never met in person, although I tried to offer what I could through letters. She always took me very seriously, which was generous of her.
[But aw, Viktor. Palamedes hums around another fond smile, despite himself. To remember these old hurts is heavy, and yet something about Viktor fumbling through niceties improves matters. Palamedes reaches over to pat him on the shoulder, grateful.]
It's only me; you're fine.
[What else is there to say, he wonders; that she patiently tolerated his schoolboy-ish feelings until providing his very first proper heartbreak, some odd years ago? That makes him sound bitter about it, which he's never been. Or perhaps that she rebelled very hard against her illness and it didn't matter in the end, because that was not the thing that killed her? That necessitates too much backstory and terrible tales of what necromancers do to cavaliers and to each other, too much for this lumpy couch evening.
So. Hmm. He says,] She had far too much spirit to be born to the Seventh; she would have loved to have handfuls of lasers to wave at things.
[There, the quickest summary with the least horrifying necromancer stuff in it, very good. He tries to picture himself with an honest weapon, like, to strap to his waist or some such, and the mental image alone feels so incredibly off and silly. This is definitely a necromancer problem...]
no subject
Not exactly. We never met in person, although I tried to offer what I could through letters. She always took me very seriously, which was generous of her.
[But aw, Viktor. Palamedes hums around another fond smile, despite himself. To remember these old hurts is heavy, and yet something about Viktor fumbling through niceties improves matters. Palamedes reaches over to pat him on the shoulder, grateful.]
It's only me; you're fine.
[What else is there to say, he wonders; that she patiently tolerated his schoolboy-ish feelings until providing his very first proper heartbreak, some odd years ago? That makes him sound bitter about it, which he's never been. Or perhaps that she rebelled very hard against her illness and it didn't matter in the end, because that was not the thing that killed her? That necessitates too much backstory and terrible tales of what necromancers do to cavaliers and to each other, too much for this lumpy couch evening.
So. Hmm. He says,] She had far too much spirit to be born to the Seventh; she would have loved to have handfuls of lasers to wave at things.
[There, the quickest summary with the least horrifying necromancer stuff in it, very good. He tries to picture himself with an honest weapon, like, to strap to his waist or some such, and the mental image alone feels so incredibly off and silly. This is definitely a necromancer problem...]
I would have to carry it around?
[but like, what if he doesn't wanna.]