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endlessflask) wrote2019-06-11 09:08 am
endlessflask) wrote2019-06-11 09:08 am
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Action.
Maybe that was Quentin and Eliot's plan all along; he's not sure. All he can say is that he hasn't quite made an effort to seek him out until now. It's... not even that Eliot was any more or less terrifying than Quentin had been. But the truth was, he wasn't sure where Eliot stood after the bloodlust had passed. It was his fault in a way that both of the men had died. After all, he told Frank who they were. He told Frank the two were on a murderous spree.
But he couldn't walk circles around the man instead of meeting him head-on forever. So he carefully knocks on the door of the counselor room, waiting until he's given the okay before he pokes a shaggy head of hair into the room. He's in his robes, still wearing his sling and decked out in his cast. The pleasant smell of stew drifts into the room from the basket full of bread and tupperware. There's also a little something extra he needs to give Eliot, as is his current mission — the scarf is hanging in the crease of his arm, one he hopes is something Eliot would like.
A peace offering, as much as it is just him being him.
... His heart is beating so quickly. Funny, he thought he was over this by now.
He swallows hard.]
May I come in?
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Sitting in his office is at least not the worst thing. Eliot looks tired, feels tired, and he couldn’t manage a standing, regular teaching job. Leaning against his desk is an elaborate black cane with a silver ram’s head at the handle. ]
It’s open.
[ When he looks up, he pauses, surprised to see Diarmuid. If it’s any consolation? At the sight of the young monk, Eliot feels a similar panic. He’s never been all that good at fixing mistakes. He stands, supporting himself against the desk when he does. ]
Yeah - Yes, of course. Do you need help with any of that?
[ It seems to be a lot for a boy with one useless arm to be carrying. Eliot reaches for his cane and takes a few steps before thinking that maybe it’s better for Diarmuid to come to him. ]
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He breaks himself out of the short trance to shake his head.]
It's fine. I — I've been getting used to it.
[There's some comfort in seeing Eliot's quietly panicked by his appearance, too.
It means he feels something other than the desire to hunt him. He thinks. He's fairly certain. He makes his way over, only a little out of breath, all the while feeling an eye out for any signs of violence; there is none, and really, Eliot looks dreadful right now. Not that Diarmuid looked much better when he spoke to Quentin, but at least there are no lingering bruises or cuts on him anymore. He clears his throat, putting the basket on the desk.]
... Are you — alright?
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It's fine. If Diarmuid can be this gracious, then certainly Eliot can. But the tables are turned this time and Eliot is certainly moderately terrified of the teen. ]
It's been a rough couple of months. I guess that's karma.
[ He cracks the slightest of smiles and reaches to help set the basket down. It smells good. ]
This is - You didn't have to do this. [ Certainly not for Eliot. He's pretty sure he doesn't deserve it, no matter how kind or forgiving someone can be. ] But thank you.
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Perhaps it's harder to be afraid of someone who looks so dead on their feet.
And while Diarmuid isn't one to appreciate karma, he certainly sees the parallel of a certain monk boy hobbling alongside a riverbed, injured and lost.
He pulls the scarf from the crease of his bent arm, the one in its sling at the moment; it's a nice scarf, one that's somewhat intricate and fancy. Having been around Eliot in passing enough at the school...]
I also have this for you. I thought — with winter coming, it would be unpleasant to go without a scarf, so I've been making sure everyone has one...
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[ The scarf is honestly the kindest part of it. That Diarmuid has one useful arm and he's out here, making scarves to make sure people are comfortable in the winter, and Eliot pushes down a new wave of guilt that washes over him.
He takes the scarf and runs his thumb and index finger over it, admiring the fabric. ]
I - Thank you. It reminds me of something I might have worn when I was king of Fillory.
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You were a king? Of the land in the books? The world created by Ember and Umber.
[........ A certain someone had let him borrow the book, and all.]
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[ He'd known Quentin was going to give Diarmuid the books. They'd talked about it. Well, Quentin had talked about it and Eliot had listened and sort of dozed. ]
Quentin was a king, too. Technically. He never actually did anything kingly. I was High King, so I was kinglier than him, but. I don't really know if I miss it or not.
[ Eliot sits down, since he supposes he doesn't need to be standing anymore, and he folds the scarf neatly to avoid it creasing. He's already thinking what he can wear it with. ]
Look. You can't really apologize for doing shit like I did. There aren't even any excuses for it, either, but I - Genuinely think you're a great kid and I realize I fucked up bad. And I'm not that great at expressing my emotions but this all means a lot to me. [ He motions to the bread and the stew and the scarf. ] Hopefully one day I can figure out how to be as kind as you are.
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[He trails off, moving to sit down, too. Funny, he'd just been sitting here some months ago, getting advice and setting up a schedule. He's been — doing poorly in school the last month, but the schedule's at least been a constant in his life... something to keep him focused. Or at least half-focused.
He's guessing Eliot wouldn't prefer to be referred as 'your majesty', so he shall do him a favor and not make this any more awkward a meeting. His uninjured hand curls on his knee, and he listens fully.]
... I have tried to live as Christ would, in all manner of the heart... of forgiveness, especially. I know that many, yourself perhaps included, don't linger in that kind of faith, nor believe in such things, but... it has helped me find a way to cope with this place. You weren't the first to hurt me, and you shall not be the last, and so... I must try to let go of what you've done.
[He purses his lips.]
It does not mean I don't... fear you. [His voice cracks, but he persists:] Even now, I'm — wondering if you will suddenly raise your hand to me... if you're tricking me into believing your words, like you had before. But like with Quentin, I - I don't... I don't think you're a bad person.
... You're very capable of good and wonderful things.
And it's not... your fault, that the town took advantage.
So what I had told you still stands; I do still forgive you.
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Eliot presses his lips together before frowning a little. ]
Listen. Forgiveness is great. It's good for your mental health and whatever else they say about that, but don't let it make you passive. I mean, sure, you're right. This place is going to keep being shitty and, yeah, you'll probably be hurt again, but you can't just - Excuse people hurting you before they even do. Don't let yourself sit there and say, "won't be the first time, won't be the last." Okay?
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... Okay.
[He's not sure how well he'll be able to follow that advice, because he really doesn't feel like it'll stop the path his life's snowballed down but. He is particularly sick of this place hurting him. Of using people who wouldn't hurt him to do it. He looks a little lost.]
Perhaps I can — find a way to become a little stronger.
Learn how to fight back a little better.
[If he'd known how to fight since the beginning, maybe his brothers wouldn't have died.
If he'd just... known how to protect.]
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When I was your age - [ He can't believe he's just said that. Rewind. ] - When I was younger, in high school, I was … Bullied. A lot. Not just by kids at school but by people that, for all intents and purposes, should have loved me a lot more than they did. I've been there. So. I know it's not easy, and I know that learning to move beyond it isn't easy. But it's possible. Right?
[ Eliot gives Diarmuid a small smile. He doesn't mean to really ramble or go off on a tangent, but he thinks maybe the boy should know that he's not the only one going through this. Sometimes it just really sucks to think you're alone when you're not. ]
Just, you know. Remember that you deserve better, and don't let people undermine your value. Okay?
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[Diarmuid frowns at that after listening with that careful, soft way of his. It's important to hear the struggles of others, to understand that they're flawed creatures and not the monsters you perceive them to be — even easier when you at least know they weren't in their right minds, that it wasn't always under their control.
It doesn't help that Diarmuid's a little too familiar with bullying, be it a teen-aged jock who think it funny to step on the edge of his robes, or a lordship who thinks it's alright to torment monks for conquest and power, or... a fellow monk, who hides behind his faith to hurt people.
He couldn't imagine people who should love you, doing such things...
But then again, he was abandoned; perhaps fortune truly did smile upon him, then.
Then Eliot says that.
And Diarmuid's quieted by it. It is not any deep, unrealized secret to himself, that he's unsure of his value. That he's unsure if he's being punished by his errors and mistakes in his young life. He's only just accepted that Geraldus' death was not a murder, but self-defense, an accident caused by the other man's attempts to smother his life out.
... But this... He's not sure what to say, really.]
How does one know? That they deserve better? How does one measure such a thing?
[He would honestly love to know.]
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[ It's a perfectly reasonable question. Eliot doesn't really know how to answer it. He's not even sure there is a right answer. He can only speak from experience, which is funny, because he's not even entirely sure he's deserving of anything better.
But he acts like he is, and that helps his attitude come across as confident and un-fuck-with-able. ]
I guess you just have to believe it. Even if you have no reason to, you just have to trust you do. And, you know, take it from the people that care about you. Trust me when I say that if anyone in this place deserves anything good, it's you. You're … Very exceptional.
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There are many exceptional people in this town; I would not count myself among them.
[Clearing his throat, he motions to the food.]
I, um. I should leave you to lunch. It's better warm.