[ If he's not mistaken—and he's not, is he—he'd think he detects a sliver of apology in that answer. And maybe melancholy, too, without knowing precisely whether or not it's his own—things never are exactly as you imagine them to be. Albedo closes his eyes and tries to let it all flow through him, at his most elated when he's not sure where his thoughts end and Rubedo's begin, hoping that if even a sliver of that rapture washes back into Rubedo that maybe—
That he'll... understand.
There's an indescribable shift in Albedo's perception that he's only just becoming aware of: it's like the mists are clearing between them, like his jagged edges are being sanded down by a slow tide. It's not that different from the moments following Rubedo's deathblow, he can suppose. Even less different from the moment of his resurrection. Open books can be read or written in, Rubedo reminds him without meaning to; an open door is accessible from both directions. Whether or not Rubedo's conscious mind only gives what he chooses to give, it's enough, and Albedo doesn't rightly know at first what to do with all this new perspective.
Rubedo's courage. His fear. His helplessness. His good intentions and bitterest regrets.
Seen through a lens other than his own betrayal, madness, it's Albedo who unexpectedly begins to understand. And in understanding, he finds abruptly that his forgiveness is uncontrollable. Hell, the grieving angry child in him doesn't want to let things go; he can feel the war it's conjured in his psyche and knows that Rubedo probably can, too. An embarrassing brat, willfully blinded by his own agony at being abandoned. Albedo understands, but he hurts, but he understands.
He swallows and sits up, perpendicular to Jr. on the mattress, legs in half-lotus and searching Jr.'s face for what to say like they're twelve again. ]
It's useless to cling to what could've been... [ he begins, slower and with less certainty than he intends. Annoyed. ] Rewriting history's a futile effort, anyway.
[ A pause, a smirk. His knee's in just the right place to bump against Jr.'s. ]
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branchandroot
yeah albedo's definitely the smart twin
Date: 2015-01-08 07:19 am (UTC)That he'll... understand.
There's an indescribable shift in Albedo's perception that he's only just becoming aware of: it's like the mists are clearing between them, like his jagged edges are being sanded down by a slow tide. It's not that different from the moments following Rubedo's deathblow, he can suppose. Even less different from the moment of his resurrection. Open books can be read or written in, Rubedo reminds him without meaning to; an open door is accessible from both directions. Whether or not Rubedo's conscious mind only gives what he chooses to give, it's enough, and Albedo doesn't rightly know at first what to do with all this new perspective.
Rubedo's courage. His fear. His helplessness. His good intentions and bitterest regrets.
Seen through a lens other than his own betrayal, madness, it's Albedo who unexpectedly begins to understand. And in understanding, he finds abruptly that his forgiveness is uncontrollable. Hell, the grieving angry child in him doesn't want to let things go; he can feel the war it's conjured in his psyche and knows that Rubedo probably can, too. An embarrassing brat, willfully blinded by his own agony at being abandoned. Albedo understands, but he hurts, but he understands.
He swallows and sits up, perpendicular to Jr. on the mattress, legs in half-lotus and searching Jr.'s face for what to say like they're twelve again. ]
It's useless to cling to what could've been... [ he begins, slower and with less certainty than he intends. Annoyed. ] Rewriting history's a futile effort, anyway.
[ A pause, a smirk. His knee's in just the right place to bump against Jr.'s. ]
At least, it is now.