[ While Carlisle speaks, Qubit presses one hand to his eyes, the other to his waist. The silent sobs keep coming, the tears keep flowing - he's given up on trying to stop them altogether, but he still doesn't want Carlisle to see him like this. What good is he like this? What purpose does it serve?
He has enough presence of mind to listen, though. And he recognizes that Carlisle's trying to reach out to him, to commiserate. There are similarities, common threads in their subjective experiences of grief, as there were between him and Peter. Losing everything. Failing the people they were supposed to defend. Going back over the events, analyzing each inflection point ad nauseum, searching the past for opportunities to do better, kicking themselves for each one missed.
But just as with Peter, comparing them twists his gut with an intense, visceral repulsion. It's not the same. Carlisle's spent his entire life struggling to overcome the stigma of his curse, only to have it all backfire through no fault of his own. He's a good man who deserves so much better than he got, not a bastard who got better than he deserves.
Eventually Qubit opens his eyes, dragging his hand down his face - only to find Carlisle offering him a handkerchief, of all things. He stares at it for a moment as if he doesn't know what it is, but then takes it and wipes his eyes. ]
... I'm not sure ... there is a way.
[ His voice is trembling. It sounds alien to him. He dabs at the sweat dripping down his forehead.
For some reason, he's reminded of something Reynir mentioned a while back. How mages can hear the voices of the damned, the trapped souls that scream and scream and never stop. There's no respite, no way to turn it off, and only one way to cope. ]
no subject
He has enough presence of mind to listen, though. And he recognizes that Carlisle's trying to reach out to him, to commiserate. There are similarities, common threads in their subjective experiences of grief, as there were between him and Peter. Losing everything. Failing the people they were supposed to defend. Going back over the events, analyzing each inflection point ad nauseum, searching the past for opportunities to do better, kicking themselves for each one missed.
But just as with Peter, comparing them twists his gut with an intense, visceral repulsion. It's not the same. Carlisle's spent his entire life struggling to overcome the stigma of his curse, only to have it all backfire through no fault of his own. He's a good man who deserves so much better than he got, not a bastard who got better than he deserves.
Eventually Qubit opens his eyes, dragging his hand down his face - only to find Carlisle offering him a handkerchief, of all things. He stares at it for a moment as if he doesn't know what it is, but then takes it and wipes his eyes. ]
... I'm not sure ... there is a way.
[ His voice is trembling. It sounds alien to him. He dabs at the sweat dripping down his forehead.
For some reason, he's reminded of something Reynir mentioned a while back. How mages can hear the voices of the damned, the trapped souls that scream and scream and never stop. There's no respite, no way to turn it off, and only one way to cope. ]
Perhaps we'll just ... get used to it.