⦑ She must let him live the wordplay down, of course, but he can see the corners of her mouth curve up as she lowers her head to conceal it.
Quickly enough, she sobers again –– they have had talks like these, of his world, of hers, but some things were avoided, safe for the saying she can't seem to keep to herself. ⦒
The Night is dark, and full of terrors. ⦑ She nods, says it to give him certainty of her knowing what he is aiming for. ⦒ In death, we are meant to ascent to a Hall of Light. No darkness, anymore, no pain, no fear. Easy to tell it did not work out quick like this. ⦑ Her own attempt at a jest. ⦒
The war I was fighting... Some of the faith is talk. All faith needs stories and rites, and not all of them are true or serve purpose beyond communal rejoicing, strengthening of the congregation, somesuch thing. But the war is real. The Others – dead creatures of ice –– are rising, after ten thousand years, and they make for one final attack. Some of the men I knew have already fought some –– well, some of the men I knew managed to narrowly escape as their weapons shattered against undead skin and their brothers were turned to the same kind of beast before their eyes.
⦑ She meets his eyes, blue to red, earnest. ⦒ They will march on Westeros, and if they are not defeated in the war for the dawn, they will march on the rest of the world, and then, the Long Night, the neverending darkness, will come and devour all.
[ Sure, it's wild. Melisandre's sincerity is plain on her face, in her tone, with every word she says but it'd still be easy to chalk up to insanity or drugs or some other logic were he anywhere else but here with all the things he's seen so far in less than a month. All the things he's since learned to do himself. And so he listens with the gravity due the situation, due her.
He still can't help the stray thought that it'd make for a hell of a film pitch. Tolkien meets Romero, score by Hans Zimmer for the appropriate level of drama and suspense.
It's easier to think of that than any of Melisandre's religious slant. Rafe had never thought about what had come after dying. Had never thought about what would come after Avery. Still refuses to think on such things and ignores the quiet part of himself that threatens to unravel if he did. ]
What, you're carrying one around in your pocket?
[ It's the barest hint of sarcasm, the lingering accent of a language spoken fluently that can't be shaken. ]
If I had ever touched on, our encounters would not have been half as pleasurable for you.
⟪ Easier to make a snide comment back, easier to leave the melancholy behind, especially with what she is about to do. More often than not, far more often than not, she forgoes this: most are untouched by magic, do not understand it, and if she bothers to sue it like this, if she bothers to share a vision at all in more than words, they would think she's poisoned them, fed them some drug of a kind.
But... he has studied. He is a practitioner himself, and while it is still early in the day for him, it can't be taken back now. It is within him, magic is, set to shape him for all of his life – or, in this case, death.
She reaches for her lantern, sets it down in front of him, and opens the little window so he can see the flame inside. Then she stands, shifts so she is behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. ⟫
I can share a vision with you. Who knows, maybe you are so inclined yourself?
[ There's a joke to be made there, something involving the word frigid. But Rafe has used up his quota of stupid jokes for the next decade and so refrains, an easier concession with her warmth at his back and the promise of more magic to come. He leans back into her hands, a deep breath to center himself and be ready for whatever comes next. ]
Let's see what we can see.
[ He twists his head to flash a small smile at her, quiet and confident before he settles and fixes his gaze on the flame before him. ]
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no subject
Quickly enough, she sobers again –– they have had talks like these, of his world, of hers, but some things were avoided, safe for the saying she can't seem to keep to herself. ⦒
The Night is dark, and full of terrors. ⦑ She nods, says it to give him certainty of her knowing what he is aiming for. ⦒ In death, we are meant to ascent to a Hall of Light. No darkness, anymore, no pain, no fear. Easy to tell it did not work out quick like this. ⦑ Her own attempt at a jest. ⦒
The war I was fighting... Some of the faith is talk. All faith needs stories and rites, and not all of them are true or serve purpose beyond communal rejoicing, strengthening of the congregation, somesuch thing. But the war is real. The Others – dead creatures of ice –– are rising, after ten thousand years, and they make for one final attack. Some of the men I knew have already fought some –– well, some of the men I knew managed to narrowly escape as their weapons shattered against undead skin and their brothers were turned to the same kind of beast before their eyes.
⦑ She meets his eyes, blue to red, earnest. ⦒ They will march on Westeros, and if they are not defeated in the war for the dawn, they will march on the rest of the world, and then, the Long Night, the neverending darkness, will come and devour all.
⦑ She knows it's a wild story. ⦒
Would you like to see one? One of the Others?
no subject
He still can't help the stray thought that it'd make for a hell of a film pitch. Tolkien meets Romero, score by Hans Zimmer for the appropriate level of drama and suspense.
It's easier to think of that than any of Melisandre's religious slant. Rafe had never thought about what had come after dying. Had never thought about what would come after Avery. Still refuses to think on such things and ignores the quiet part of himself that threatens to unravel if he did. ]
What, you're carrying one around in your pocket?
[ It's the barest hint of sarcasm, the lingering accent of a language spoken fluently that can't be shaken. ]
How you figure to swing that?
no subject
⟪ Easier to make a snide comment back, easier to leave the melancholy behind, especially with what she is about to do. More often than not, far more often than not, she forgoes this: most are untouched by magic, do not understand it, and if she bothers to sue it like this, if she bothers to share a vision at all in more than words, they would think she's poisoned them, fed them some drug of a kind.
But... he has studied. He is a practitioner himself, and while it is still early in the day for him, it can't be taken back now. It is within him, magic is, set to shape him for all of his life – or, in this case, death.
She reaches for her lantern, sets it down in front of him, and opens the little window so he can see the flame inside. Then she stands, shifts so she is behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. ⟫
I can share a vision with you. Who knows, maybe you are so inclined yourself?
no subject
Let's see what we can see.
[ He twists his head to flash a small smile at her, quiet and confident before he settles and fixes his gaze on the flame before him. ]