[How unexpected. Cruelly he chalks it up to an imperfection in Hythlodaeus' replication, than aught that he could have ever caused in Hythlodaeus himself. As if the thought would serve as the balm his aching heart needs, but it does nothing.
Nothing at all as he stares down at the man kneeling before him. The shade, the copy, the mimic of his dear friend. Of his love.
Yet, despite his stubbornness, he is not as cruel as he might try to be, and his already wounded heart yearns to reach out, to comfort...anything to assuage the pain he knows he's feeling. He can feel. Just as it were with that phoenix, as it slammed into the walls of the bureau, again and again in its panic. In it's pain.
Destroying itself over and over again, only to hopelessly revitalize so it could do it all again. And while beautiful, breathtakingly so, it did not wear Hythlodaeus as its form.
He knows not what he's doing as he lowers himself, his arms encircling him as his own head rests against the top of Hythlodaeus'. He's still angry, still hurt, but what can he do? Would Hythlodaeus condemn him for this weakness? Would he find fault in him for seeking comfort and kindness in this sorry shade he made of him?
Part of him tells him he wouldn't, that he would understand. That he would not forsake him and wish him to continue this path of solitude and isolation he has followed for so very long...
Yet the guilt. It's there. Ever is it. Pressing hard on his heart, and harder yet through his thoughts. Which is why within a few moments, he aims to stand once more, to retract his hold. His mind, his heart is a tempest of emotions and thoughts that he has little hope of sorting, nor understanding in the moment.
How can he when he is so struck with his own mourning?]
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[How unexpected. Cruelly he chalks it up to an imperfection in Hythlodaeus' replication, than aught that he could have ever caused in Hythlodaeus himself. As if the thought would serve as the balm his aching heart needs, but it does nothing.
Nothing at all as he stares down at the man kneeling before him. The shade, the copy, the mimic of his dear friend. Of his love.
Yet, despite his stubbornness, he is not as cruel as he might try to be, and his already wounded heart yearns to reach out, to comfort...anything to assuage the pain he knows he's feeling. He can feel. Just as it were with that phoenix, as it slammed into the walls of the bureau, again and again in its panic. In it's pain.
Destroying itself over and over again, only to hopelessly revitalize so it could do it all again. And while beautiful, breathtakingly so, it did not wear Hythlodaeus as its form.
He knows not what he's doing as he lowers himself, his arms encircling him as his own head rests against the top of Hythlodaeus'. He's still angry, still hurt, but what can he do? Would Hythlodaeus condemn him for this weakness? Would he find fault in him for seeking comfort and kindness in this sorry shade he made of him?
Part of him tells him he wouldn't, that he would understand. That he would not forsake him and wish him to continue this path of solitude and isolation he has followed for so very long...
Yet the guilt. It's there. Ever is it. Pressing hard on his heart, and harder yet through his thoughts. Which is why within a few moments, he aims to stand once more, to retract his hold. His mind, his heart is a tempest of emotions and thoughts that he has little hope of sorting, nor understanding in the moment.
How can he when he is so struck with his own mourning?]