Circles being what they are, the idea of a friend who was a danger to himself isn't so foreign, either. (Something's eating at him more than usual, he'd said to a Senior Enchanter, when asked about missed appointments and dropped obligations. I'm concerned-- that it might go beyond overwork and skipped meals and lost sleep. Should he have kept silent? he asks himself now, with perfect hindsight. What would have been the better ending?) Myr gives up on standing at last, slumping into the chair with his arms folded over the back of it.
He's at a loss for what to say once he's settled himself; it isn't so simple as "she was wrong" or "you were"--it never is. "I'd think," he finally ventures, "--and this is without knowing Ser Coupe so well as you do," and again that hesitation where he'd use Simon's title reflexively and keeps himself from it, "that if she'd truly intended only that you were to snitch on him, she's got cause to be upset that you didn't. But if she'd meant you to have his best interests in mind--someone who's been the subject of so much attention in the Inquisition lately deserves some shred of privacy, even if it means the rest of us will worry a little more about him."
A pause, as he stops to think over that, trying to drag his thoughts into order--away from an older breach of trust, an older failure. "If she truly wanted to ensure his safety above anything else," he continues at length, picking the words up and placing them down slowly, "she could put him in a cell and make you stand guard over him, without you having to make any difficult decisions that would get you crossways with her. That she hadn't says to me she does want you using your head--but she's had a nasty shock over something to do with him, and she's taking it out on you, because she can't, on him."
How easy a thing it was to do--how easily strong emotion one shouldn't feel about a soft and wounded target could get redirected onto somebody who seemed sturdier, with broader shoulders to bear the lash. (How often he'd lashed out like that at whoever got too close in those first few months, because he couldn't sharpen his tongue on Ser Jarom or Casimir.)
"Which isn't to justify it. But it might--Maker's bones." And he laughs at himself, raw and bitter. "I was about to say 'it might make it easier to bear,' but you put so much faith in her and she's done this to you. I couldn't be charitable about that--I wasn't, for years."
Still isn't, quite, if he's being absolutely truthful with himself, but he's trying.
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Circles being what they are, the idea of a friend who was a danger to himself isn't so foreign, either. (Something's eating at him more than usual, he'd said to a Senior Enchanter, when asked about missed appointments and dropped obligations. I'm concerned-- that it might go beyond overwork and skipped meals and lost sleep. Should he have kept silent? he asks himself now, with perfect hindsight. What would have been the better ending?) Myr gives up on standing at last, slumping into the chair with his arms folded over the back of it.
He's at a loss for what to say once he's settled himself; it isn't so simple as "she was wrong" or "you were"--it never is. "I'd think," he finally ventures, "--and this is without knowing Ser Coupe so well as you do," and again that hesitation where he'd use Simon's title reflexively and keeps himself from it, "that if she'd truly intended only that you were to snitch on him, she's got cause to be upset that you didn't. But if she'd meant you to have his best interests in mind--someone who's been the subject of so much attention in the Inquisition lately deserves some shred of privacy, even if it means the rest of us will worry a little more about him."
A pause, as he stops to think over that, trying to drag his thoughts into order--away from an older breach of trust, an older failure. "If she truly wanted to ensure his safety above anything else," he continues at length, picking the words up and placing them down slowly, "she could put him in a cell and make you stand guard over him, without you having to make any difficult decisions that would get you crossways with her. That she hadn't says to me she does want you using your head--but she's had a nasty shock over something to do with him, and she's taking it out on you, because she can't, on him."
How easy a thing it was to do--how easily strong emotion one shouldn't feel about a soft and wounded target could get redirected onto somebody who seemed sturdier, with broader shoulders to bear the lash. (How often he'd lashed out like that at whoever got too close in those first few months, because he couldn't sharpen his tongue on Ser Jarom or Casimir.)
"Which isn't to justify it. But it might--Maker's bones." And he laughs at himself, raw and bitter. "I was about to say 'it might make it easier to bear,' but you put so much faith in her and she's done this to you. I couldn't be charitable about that--I wasn't, for years."
Still isn't, quite, if he's being absolutely truthful with himself, but he's trying.