Names often do change after calamities, though most don't. Stories are made from them, histories spun and people rising in the wake of what was left.
( it doesn't make any calamity that happened better but moiraine speaks as if she's seen this kind of thing before. really, she's read about it more, knows the stories but she has seen disasters strike and the strength people can have )
Whatever happened to them-- some help would not be terrible, rebuilding or finding a path out.
( Reconstruction, discovery. Mouth soft, her strength frail, mere moments ago born unto this world from her travels, yet this woman speaks tattered truths that the veterans of their contingent blind ignore wilfully. They owe. Their intervention, due or haphazard, was folly.
They have glutted themselves on the agony of a city left crumbed and bare at their feet, and how do they abandon it? Their tails meek and heads bowed, widowed of success but consorted to vainglory. )
We should not flee. ( As cravens do. As thieves in the night. Click-clack of his heels on fissured tile. Restlessness commands him up, raised, active. He fights it, fights himself, fingers broken in fists tightened like wet knots. Lingers down.
...this woman has earned better than this, his sickly teachings. She will learn her own mind; better he should not infect it. ) Apologies. I speak to excess.
( moiraine shifts in show she's sat, elbow resting on her knee, letting her head rest against her hand, curiosity in her expression. she's very familiar with people that say a lot when they say little but less so for those that apologise for it )
You've been here longer than I, seen what has happened to these people. You're in a better place than me to know what should be done.
( Excess is a relative feat, wealth past the possibility of use and spend. Men love their voices too well, the reassurance that their thoughts hold water and weight, for their were heard spoken. Gusu Lan contrives defence against that arrogance — discipline, and Lan Wangji nods with her question. He spoke past measure.
Shifting, the woman appears to have eased, if not healed. Perhaps what struck her was a sickness of motion. He remembers the fevers that assailed him on arrival, the spearing aches of joints and how his mind unravelled, and the deathly, rotten cold of jutting stone piercing his hands and feet in the salt mines. They suffered no kindness in that travel. He doubts she was treated more gently. )
You ask my wisdom before my name. ( His experience, his instinct. ) I accept yours.
( maybe she should have gone with names first, though their conversation had been polite and she'd been curious -- interested. and moiraine still was, how else could she know anything about this place without asking the guidance and experience of others? )
( Moiraine. A strange affliction of a name, light on the tongue. He murmurs it mutely, as if it might galvanise him to learn it, as if the look of her who wears it is somehow insufficient.
Her price paid, the knowledge earned. How long have they whiled here? Mere days, and we have upturned the world. Perhaps there is yet pity in it, that he is king over ash and debris and dying birds, but not over a frozen citadel succumbed to the dead again. Perhaps they have improved the fever of their progress, leaving the living behind. )
Months, uncounted. ( And why? He hesitates, silence oily and seeping, disgusting in its cowardice. Excuses. ) Sickness and disaster distorted timekeeping. ( Not enough. ) We proved negligent.
( Subject to poison and assaults they could not deflect, and every manner of dubious offensive they should, by right, have predicted by now. )
( it's not an excuse but a sympathy. even in their own worlds so many could wish to act and be unable to or would fail to act as it was. here... they don't know enough )
If disaster happens, if you try to help it's more than they would have had.
( He hears her, listens. Would laugh, but he cannot condescend a woman who has surrendered the dregs of her compassion, freely, errantly given. Perhaps she too makes attempt to help.
But the ash in Taravast's sunset skies thickens, minutely ground and pale like mid-winter snow, when the cold beggars it of transparency. All around Lan Wangji, freedom burns, the ruling conclave, the city itself — poetry and metaphor and letter. )
We are not children, to pretend at false gains. ( To whisper to themselves, to ease their own sleep, that attempts have the weight of successes. ) We are not so vain.
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( it doesn't make any calamity that happened better but moiraine speaks as if she's seen this kind of thing before. really, she's read about it more, knows the stories but she has seen disasters strike and the strength people can have )
Whatever happened to them-- some help would not be terrible, rebuilding or finding a path out.
no subject
They have glutted themselves on the agony of a city left crumbed and bare at their feet, and how do they abandon it? Their tails meek and heads bowed, widowed of success but consorted to vainglory. )
We should not flee. ( As cravens do. As thieves in the night. Click-clack of his heels on fissured tile. Restlessness commands him up, raised, active. He fights it, fights himself, fingers broken in fists tightened like wet knots. Lingers down.
...this woman has earned better than this, his sickly teachings. She will learn her own mind; better he should not infect it. ) Apologies. I speak to excess.
no subject
( moiraine shifts in show she's sat, elbow resting on her knee, letting her head rest against her hand, curiosity in her expression. she's very familiar with people that say a lot when they say little but less so for those that apologise for it )
You've been here longer than I, seen what has happened to these people. You're in a better place than me to know what should be done.
no subject
Shifting, the woman appears to have eased, if not healed. Perhaps what struck her was a sickness of motion. He remembers the fevers that assailed him on arrival, the spearing aches of joints and how his mind unravelled, and the deathly, rotten cold of jutting stone piercing his hands and feet in the salt mines. They suffered no kindness in that travel. He doubts she was treated more gently. )
You ask my wisdom before my name. ( His experience, his instinct. ) I accept yours.
( Some might even say, he asks it. )
no subject
( maybe she should have gone with names first, though their conversation had been polite and she'd been curious -- interested. and moiraine still was, how else could she know anything about this place without asking the guidance and experience of others? )
How long have you been in Taravast?
no subject
Her price paid, the knowledge earned. How long have they whiled here? Mere days, and we have upturned the world. Perhaps there is yet pity in it, that he is king over ash and debris and dying birds, but not over a frozen citadel succumbed to the dead again. Perhaps they have improved the fever of their progress, leaving the living behind. )
Months, uncounted. ( And why? He hesitates, silence oily and seeping, disgusting in its cowardice. Excuses. ) Sickness and disaster distorted timekeeping. ( Not enough. ) We proved negligent.
( Subject to poison and assaults they could not deflect, and every manner of dubious offensive they should, by right, have predicted by now. )
no subject
( it's not an excuse but a sympathy. even in their own worlds so many could wish to act and be unable to or would fail to act as it was. here... they don't know enough )
If disaster happens, if you try to help it's more than they would have had.
no subject
But the ash in Taravast's sunset skies thickens, minutely ground and pale like mid-winter snow, when the cold beggars it of transparency. All around Lan Wangji, freedom burns, the ruling conclave, the city itself — poetry and metaphor and letter. )
We are not children, to pretend at false gains. ( To whisper to themselves, to ease their own sleep, that attempts have the weight of successes. ) We are not so vain.