( it's an answer that, more than anything, he doesn't want to give.
and at first he doesn't give it. he takes a shuddering breath into his lungs, holds it, and then carefully replaces his shard where it embeds satisfactorily in his chest. the thin, demanding light of Meridian has faded within it, and it brings with it a peace and relief that he hasn't felt since he was trapped within these caverns. he no longer has to contend with his guilt, his regrets, his nagging conscience trying to justify that perhaps there is some way to right what he had horribly wronged. martin's voice, too, voicing these selfsame protestations — it won't return to him, regardless of how that might be both a relief and a horrible sorrow.
slowly, he looks up to dimitri, his gaze that same empty and endless deep. he answers the simpler question first: )
It's what your fears kept fed, Dimitri. I apologize - I didn't mean to mislead you, and since it keeps me alive, feeding it is, by extension, doing the same to me. ( so it's not really a lie, is it? ) It is Fear. Or one of its faces, at least... the one that I am most tied to.
( he lapses into momentary silence, looking down and frowning, thinking of how best to explain this. )
If a man slits another's throat with a knife, which is responsible for the murder: the knife, or the man who holds it? ( his gaze returns. ) I caused the destruction of my world, and I condemned every living soul within it to a torment of terror, pain, and confusion, from which death wouldn't even be an escape. But - I was the knife, not the person who held it.
no subject
and at first he doesn't give it. he takes a shuddering breath into his lungs, holds it, and then carefully replaces his shard where it embeds satisfactorily in his chest. the thin, demanding light of Meridian has faded within it, and it brings with it a peace and relief that he hasn't felt since he was trapped within these caverns. he no longer has to contend with his guilt, his regrets, his nagging conscience trying to justify that perhaps there is some way to right what he had horribly wronged. martin's voice, too, voicing these selfsame protestations — it won't return to him, regardless of how that might be both a relief and a horrible sorrow.
slowly, he looks up to dimitri, his gaze that same empty and endless deep. he answers the simpler question first: )
It's what your fears kept fed, Dimitri. I apologize - I didn't mean to mislead you, and since it keeps me alive, feeding it is, by extension, doing the same to me. ( so it's not really a lie, is it? ) It is Fear. Or one of its faces, at least... the one that I am most tied to.
( he lapses into momentary silence, looking down and frowning, thinking of how best to explain this. )
If a man slits another's throat with a knife, which is responsible for the murder: the knife, or the man who holds it? ( his gaze returns. ) I caused the destruction of my world, and I condemned every living soul within it to a torment of terror, pain, and confusion, from which death wouldn't even be an escape. But - I was the knife, not the person who held it.