"Arthur Inkwell here. I've no earthly idea how this thing is supposed to work, but leave me a message if you're so inclined. I'll retrieve it at some point or another!"
[ is this when the truth comes out? it appears so. she pulls back to look at him, really look at him, with the ugly splotchy-faced dampness of someone on the verge of tears ]
I have nothing else but what I hold onto. My college is burned and I am expelled—I am forbidden from Waterdeep's libraries. My observatory burned, my life's work burned with it, and I am out of money and out of time! I am being evicted, at home. One week left. And for everything Eunoia and Selcouth Vaux have done, for how sinuously and cleverly they plucked what they wished from my life and burned away everything else, it will amount to nothing, because they are too stupid to do anything more with what they thieved from me. They will never break open Weave. They do not see it how I see it, and so they will enjoy their soirees for now, praised for ingenuity that was never theirs, and soon their peers will realize it, but I will never be Scribe! I will never be Scribe!
[ It all comes out in a torrent, and Arthur realizes that Sprezzatura is a woman drowning, clinging onto anything and everything that has the slightest chance of keeping her afloat. Even those things made of lead, the ones that hinder more than they help.
His hand comes to the side of her face, thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. She can cry, if she needs to. ]
Then perhaps... you do not need to be a Scribe. With or without the title, you're still Sprezzatura. Still utterly brilliant, still the fiercest, most beautiful woman I know. These things that were taken from you, that were burned away, are not things to hold tight to. Stand atop them, and climb higher.
[ their noses touch, and she gasps roughly and shivers.
what kind of lover is she, that she doesn't immediately say yes?
what kind of lover is she, that she doesn't immediately say no?
feels like there's a vice around her chest, winching tighter with the passing of every century-long second. this is the moment, she's realizing—the offer, the offer she didn't get to give Henry even to save his life, the offer she's been dying to hear pass anyone else's lips.
...and now that it has, she's trapped between the only two answers that exist, paralyzed by the finality of either one. she might never break the Weave and find Arthur, Herlock, Henry, Oriphi, Nessa, Minato, Ace, Ruggie, anyone ever again. but the door might stay closed, locking Arthur on the same side as her. maybe none of it's possible, maybe this kind of thought is all just a daydream. every single thing could go wrong, or everything could go just right; she won't be able to tell which path they're on until they're on it.
are a few years of companionship worth the snare trap Arthur would have to stand in?
what if she does what she often does, and frustrates him beyond the point that her whims and her moods are charming, in their way—? what then? she pulls the rope? says, well, don't blame me. you said you'd do it. ]
[ There is no way for him to know what she's thinking, but he can guess at it. He's just offered her his whole life, if it came down to it. What does one do with that? It is not an offer lightly taken — nor lightly made, and he hopes she knows that.
A small, soft little smile. ]
Well, rabbits are a sign of good fortune, so I think we even out.
I do. It is okay, my love. I understand. And whatever you may choose, I will understand. 'Tis not an offer I make lightly, and neither will I take your answer as anything less. I promise.
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I have nothing else but what I hold onto. My college is burned and I am expelled—I am forbidden from Waterdeep's libraries. My observatory burned, my life's work burned with it, and I am out of money and out of time! I am being evicted, at home. One week left. And for everything Eunoia and Selcouth Vaux have done, for how sinuously and cleverly they plucked what they wished from my life and burned away everything else, it will amount to nothing, because they are too stupid to do anything more with what they thieved from me. They will never break open Weave. They do not see it how I see it, and so they will enjoy their soirees for now, praised for ingenuity that was never theirs, and soon their peers will realize it, but I will never be Scribe! I will never be Scribe!
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His hand comes to the side of her face, thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. She can cry, if she needs to. ]
Then perhaps... you do not need to be a Scribe. With or without the title, you're still Sprezzatura. Still utterly brilliant, still the fiercest, most beautiful woman I know. These things that were taken from you, that were burned away, are not things to hold tight to. Stand atop them, and climb higher.
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You don't understand.
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No one can help me. Only I can help me. I have to change things... being Scribe is what I want most from my life!
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[ Said as he reaches over to wipe away another stray tear from her cheek. ]
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Arthur, please. I can't...
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[ she can't ask him to leave it behind for her, someone he's known for months at best. ]
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I am not strong enough that I can promise you this.
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I would do it for you. If you wanted me to.
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what kind of lover is she, that she doesn't immediately say yes?
what kind of lover is she, that she doesn't immediately say no?
feels like there's a vice around her chest, winching tighter with the passing of every century-long second. this is the moment, she's realizing—the offer, the offer she didn't get to give Henry even to save his life, the offer she's been dying to hear pass anyone else's lips.
...and now that it has, she's trapped between the only two answers that exist, paralyzed by the finality of either one. she might never break the Weave and find Arthur, Herlock, Henry, Oriphi, Nessa, Minato, Ace, Ruggie, anyone ever again. but the door might stay closed, locking Arthur on the same side as her. maybe none of it's possible, maybe this kind of thought is all just a daydream. every single thing could go wrong, or everything could go just right; she won't be able to tell which path they're on until they're on it.
are a few years of companionship worth the snare trap Arthur would have to stand in?
what if she does what she often does, and frustrates him beyond the point that her whims and her moods are charming, in their way—? what then? she pulls the rope? says, well, don't blame me. you said you'd do it. ]
Tieflings are ill omen, you know.
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A small, soft little smile. ]
Well, rabbits are a sign of good fortune, so I think we even out.
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I n... I need to think about it. You understand why, don't you?
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she leans in and brushes a kiss over his lips ]