Kira can only shake his head, still blinking tears from his eyes, still trying to find himself to--not let this be the first thing she has to deal with, in this place. Can he even remember his first night here? Dragged to a fire, put in a tub, interrogated about disease.
That she made the decision to follow him, is allowed to walk away, is logic that knows nothing of the human heart. He hadn't had to lead her to the inn, or feed her, but he couldn't have stopped himself doing them.
There's no deceit in the question, though deceit is a crack in her fed by water and ice, built over time, and only thawed out by recent fire. He'd argued with Sonny, about selfless and selfish people, and he hadn't been swayed from the belief: all people are selfish. All of them, down to their bones, and they only got caught up in things bigger than themselves, and wanted that big identity, so they did things other people could consider selfless. People who had no self were empty vessels, vulnerabilities in the machine of life, easily manipulated if not outright possessed by things they couldn't fight.
Gods, causes, relationships.
Maybe she needs to do something like this as much as he does, and it's a shame there's only one tool for doing it. "No," he answers, "This is all we've got. It's mine."
The shovel, the task, the grief. But it didn't have to be all of him, and it didn't have to all be his. "Here," he said, holding it up like she might pull him out of the hole with it, a lifeline between them. Maybe the only real selfless act was letting someone else act on your behalf. "I can't--manage it on my own."
no subject
That she made the decision to follow him, is allowed to walk away, is logic that knows nothing of the human heart. He hadn't had to lead her to the inn, or feed her, but he couldn't have stopped himself doing them.
There's no deceit in the question, though deceit is a crack in her fed by water and ice, built over time, and only thawed out by recent fire. He'd argued with Sonny, about selfless and selfish people, and he hadn't been swayed from the belief: all people are selfish. All of them, down to their bones, and they only got caught up in things bigger than themselves, and wanted that big identity, so they did things other people could consider selfless. People who had no self were empty vessels, vulnerabilities in the machine of life, easily manipulated if not outright possessed by things they couldn't fight.
Gods, causes, relationships.
Maybe she needs to do something like this as much as he does, and it's a shame there's only one tool for doing it. "No," he answers, "This is all we've got. It's mine."
The shovel, the task, the grief. But it didn't have to be all of him, and it didn't have to all be his. "Here," he said, holding it up like she might pull him out of the hole with it, a lifeline between them. Maybe the only real selfless act was letting someone else act on your behalf. "I can't--manage it on my own."