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[ It's weird, because Eliot had just assumed that the next time he saw Diarmuid, it'd be with Quentin as a buffer. That had been the plan, hadn't it? Quentin would initiate contact because Quentin is a little softer and warmer than Eliot is, but here he is, facing this guilt head on, on his own.

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.

[Sheltered as he had been in life, Diarmuid's not sure if him being unhappy at this 'karma' is a normal thing or not. Should he be happy Eliot suffered after the fact? Should he be relieved that something balanced out? Because he doesn't feel happy, nor relieved, and his lips purse with concern.

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...

Oh -

[ 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.

[Diarmuid nods, not quite able to smile at the man. It's hard to forget the way he'd looked at him — the iciness of his words before. His eyes keep drifting to the man's fingers, the sharp reverberation of a snap in his mind, always followed by the muffled crunching of bones. Swallowing it down, he persists:]

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.]

Huh? [ Sorry, he was lost momentarily in nostalgia. ] Oh. Yeah. Didn't Quentin tell you it's all real?

[ 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.

... I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to hear such fantastical things now, but...

[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.

[ Maybe he's not a bad person, per se, but Eliot still feels like a shitty person. Not just because of what he did, but that's a big factor in it these days.

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?

[He bites his lip, gnaws it as he listens. His gaze drifts aside.]

... 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.]

It's all ... [ Eliot exhales a hard breath through his nose. It's a weird thing to try and explain, or even talk about, when it's being discussed with someone you recently tried to kill. ]

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?

... I'm sorry that you had to endure that.

[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.]

Edited 2019-11-02 17:29 (UTC)

Well -

[ 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.

[He scoffs, glancing aside, surprisingly skeptical. Not of Eliot's sincerity, but...]

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.

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