[ The air freezes in her lungs, and then burns, and then falls to ash; frustration, disbelief, a heaviness that isn't quite anger but maybe it might as well be seize and fill her organs, and for a moment, she says nothing. Her hands release their hold on one another, and instead grip the ledge of the window. She propels herself to her feet; her sandals don't have weight enough to make an impressive sound, but there's an echo to it in the empty hall. It's only a few steps — not towards Jaime, but not really away, either.
Always assuming the best of her. It reminds her of the first time they met, in that jailer's cafeteria, and without knowing her he'd tried to find some way to bend reality to absolve her of guilt. Of blame. And maybe he'd been right, that time, but he isn't now.
Maybe it is anger. Maybe it isn't. ]
Nobody ever asks for my help. [ Nobody ever wants it. Maybe there's a reason for that. Maybe there's too many reasons to count. Her hands shake, balled into fists at her sides. As usual, they're gloved; as always, it's that single ever-familiar shade of red. Maybe there's a reason for that.
It hurts to speak, but sometimes it's easier when it's painful. ] A city full of heroes, and you think he would have asked me? I was fourteen. No. He never tried. He never asked. Once he decided it was the Negotiator's fault, he imprisoned him. The cage would only hold him if Khaji stayed close enough to power it — the scarab chained himself to his grief, and his anger, and his regret, and he was never going to let go of any of it. He wanted to do the right thing, but it was all wrong.
[ She pivots, and for the first time looks Jaime in the eye — one the same age as her, but one who never knew the City, and how much harder and darker and more painful it was there, who had not seen how much she'd changed in only three years, who could never truly understand how much Jaime had meant to her, and how much she'd wished there was any other way, and how much it still hurts now even though her friend had come back, even though everything had worked out the way she wanted, and how regret is self-feeding and self-defeating when she wouldn't take it back even if she could — and maybe, just maybe, he'll finally see the real her. ]
no subject
Always assuming the best of her. It reminds her of the first time they met, in that jailer's cafeteria, and without knowing her he'd tried to find some way to bend reality to absolve her of guilt. Of blame. And maybe he'd been right, that time, but he isn't now.
Maybe it is anger. Maybe it isn't. ]
Nobody ever asks for my help. [ Nobody ever wants it. Maybe there's a reason for that. Maybe there's too many reasons to count. Her hands shake, balled into fists at her sides. As usual, they're gloved; as always, it's that single ever-familiar shade of red. Maybe there's a reason for that.
It hurts to speak, but sometimes it's easier when it's painful. ] A city full of heroes, and you think he would have asked me? I was fourteen. No. He never tried. He never asked. Once he decided it was the Negotiator's fault, he imprisoned him. The cage would only hold him if Khaji stayed close enough to power it — the scarab chained himself to his grief, and his anger, and his regret, and he was never going to let go of any of it. He wanted to do the right thing, but it was all wrong.
[ She pivots, and for the first time looks Jaime in the eye — one the same age as her, but one who never knew the City, and how much harder and darker and more painful it was there, who had not seen how much she'd changed in only three years, who could never truly understand how much Jaime had meant to her, and how much she'd wished there was any other way, and how much it still hurts now even though her friend had come back, even though everything had worked out the way she wanted, and how regret is self-feeding and self-defeating when she wouldn't take it back even if she could — and maybe, just maybe, he'll finally see the real her. ]
So, yes, I killed Khaji Da.