...You are right, I suppose I will look back on it with far more fondness than I do at present, but so soon after—
[Yes, it seems there's no more dancing around it. He glowers at nothing in particular, looking not at Hythlodaeus, but off elsewhere as he recalls what happened. As if it ever left his mind to begin with.]
I was not the only one who reclaimed my power, you know. Others did as well—Dirk did, which was fine. Tyler did, which was also fine. But Steven.
[He nearly hisses the name with contempt.]
That fool of a man, nothing though he is, he did strike when I was unawares. Somehow, he found a means to root himself inside of my mind, inside of my dreams, and while dreams are dreams—well, memories are far more precious. Far more...striking.
He did not merely give me a horrid dream for the sake of mischief, no. He preyed upon something far more specific, he tread where no mortal—let alone anyone—should. He forced me to relive the Final Days.
...As you know, ever have I been a vivid dreamer, and should I let myself fully succumb to slumber, 'tis far too easy to get lost within such fantasies...often have I relied upon them for comfort...companionship, pitiful though it may sound.
[Though he smiles, little can Hythldaues see it, it is one both wry and self-deprecating. As he continues on, his voice is quiet, pained, and angry.]
That he would dare tread upon such, that he would have the arrogance to believe for a moment he could have any true power over me.
[Closing his eyes, that smile long since faded, he lets out a slow and steady breath. After a moment, his eyes open once more, fixing upon a spot on the wall.]
'Tis no matter. What's done is done.
[Yet it's clear he's shaken from the matter, even if he's been so well practiced at keeping his shit together over the eons. He knows how to stuff that shit down, how to keep it contained so that he can remain in control of himself, even as it tears him apart from the inside.]
no subject
[Yes, it seems there's no more dancing around it. He glowers at nothing in particular, looking not at Hythlodaeus, but off elsewhere as he recalls what happened. As if it ever left his mind to begin with.]
I was not the only one who reclaimed my power, you know. Others did as well—Dirk did, which was fine. Tyler did, which was also fine. But Steven.
[He nearly hisses the name with contempt.]
That fool of a man, nothing though he is, he did strike when I was unawares. Somehow, he found a means to root himself inside of my mind, inside of my dreams, and while dreams are dreams—well, memories are far more precious. Far more...striking.
He did not merely give me a horrid dream for the sake of mischief, no. He preyed upon something far more specific, he tread where no mortal—let alone anyone—should. He forced me to relive the Final Days.
...As you know, ever have I been a vivid dreamer, and should I let myself fully succumb to slumber, 'tis far too easy to get lost within such fantasies...often have I relied upon them for comfort...companionship, pitiful though it may sound.
[Though he smiles, little can Hythldaues see it, it is one both wry and self-deprecating. As he continues on, his voice is quiet, pained, and angry.]
That he would dare tread upon such, that he would have the arrogance to believe for a moment he could have any true power over me.
[Closing his eyes, that smile long since faded, he lets out a slow and steady breath. After a moment, his eyes open once more, fixing upon a spot on the wall.]
'Tis no matter. What's done is done.
[Yet it's clear he's shaken from the matter, even if he's been so well practiced at keeping his shit together over the eons. He knows how to stuff that shit down, how to keep it contained so that he can remain in control of himself, even as it tears him apart from the inside.]