[ he stops fidgeting with the bandage and presses a hand over the mark on his chest, where it's still glowing slightly from the effects of the swamp - burning into the skin.
to be dragged kicking and screaming back into life and being unsure if grateful is the correct emotion is not unfamiliar. after all, his own actions had been a desperate seeking of relief. The orb, the potentiality of massive destruction, Mystra's forgiveness or lack thereof, the tadpole, the isolation and fear and rotting from the inside out. and then to finally decide to let go of the struggle, to feel the thud of the knife into his chest and all that power and energy start to unwind and still find himself here was something of a system shock. he isn't sure he would thank anyone for it. he does not expect a thank you.
but ... to condemn camille to death for something she had no choice in was an equally wretched choice. it's also so easy to tread down a garden path of who is deserving. that way lies only madness and pain and misery, a devil's bargain of weighing the price of a life against another. one at a time. whoever you can.
he isn't sure she wants him in particular for any sort of comfort - after all, he is at least partially the cause of the distress to begin with - but he steps in a little bit, raising a hand like he's going to put it on her arm. ]
Nothing at all to be sorry for, Camille. All the time you need, of course.
[The step in and the hand up don't send her flinching away. She looks back to him with half her face veiled, by hair and hovering hand alike. It's not a fit that can stop easily. Too fresh. The inciting sentiment too grand for her grim trains of thought. They each derail in spectacular collisions, no survivors.
And of course there is Gale. He'd supervised the slitting of her throat. Helped arrange the plan, organized the kids. But there's also the Gale that was doomed. Arcane bomb ticking away in his chest. It's gone off once already, and his sad carcass was dragged here and resuscitated to wait on a new chopping block.
She doesn't want to think of him as a villain. Because he's not. He's running on the same borrowed time as the rest of them, with the same mixed blessing she now has.
Camille doesn't turn away. She lifts a hand in turn. Catches his. Winds her fingers through his own, grip soft over his knuckles, palm dwarfed against his. She still paints a perfect picture of misery, all red blotches and tear tracks, but she holds fast.]
I'm no saint, Gale. I've got a lot to be sorry for.
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cw: yeah same
to be dragged kicking and screaming back into life and being unsure if grateful is the correct emotion is not unfamiliar. after all, his own actions had been a desperate seeking of relief. The orb, the potentiality of massive destruction, Mystra's forgiveness or lack thereof, the tadpole, the isolation and fear and rotting from the inside out. and then to finally decide to let go of the struggle, to feel the thud of the knife into his chest and all that power and energy start to unwind and still find himself here was something of a system shock. he isn't sure he would thank anyone for it. he does not expect a thank you.
but ... to condemn camille to death for something she had no choice in was an equally wretched choice. it's also so easy to tread down a garden path of who is deserving. that way lies only madness and pain and misery, a devil's bargain of weighing the price of a life against another. one at a time. whoever you can.
he isn't sure she wants him in particular for any sort of comfort - after all, he is at least partially the cause of the distress to begin with - but he steps in a little bit, raising a hand like he's going to put it on her arm. ]
Nothing at all to be sorry for, Camille. All the time you need, of course.
Grits teeth, i love this for them
And of course there is Gale. He'd supervised the slitting of her throat. Helped arrange the plan, organized the kids. But there's also the Gale that was doomed. Arcane bomb ticking away in his chest. It's gone off once already, and his sad carcass was dragged here and resuscitated to wait on a new chopping block.
She doesn't want to think of him as a villain. Because he's not. He's running on the same borrowed time as the rest of them, with the same mixed blessing she now has.
Camille doesn't turn away. She lifts a hand in turn. Catches his. Winds her fingers through his own, grip soft over his knuckles, palm dwarfed against his. She still paints a perfect picture of misery, all red blotches and tear tracks, but she holds fast.]
I'm no saint, Gale. I've got a lot to be sorry for.
[Her grip tightens.]
But I guess now we've got one thing in common.