@4zune said :
❛ violence is a craft. so is compassion. ❜ ( src. )
Not even a few hours ago in his waking memory, Occtis might've carried the instinct to defend his family against words that couldn't be directed at anything but their actions. Of course, in the moments before he first saw his brother's face at the Palazzo Davinos, Occtis had still considered himself to be a member of that family. In his own mind, he had been tethered very tenuously to the name he still wore with some strange mixture of pride and sheepishness—but he had still been tethered to him.
We're not violent, Occtis thinks he would have said, despite the Falconer's Rebellion that had been quelled before he was even old enough to know anything about it, and the needless execution he'd tried to help circumvent. My family isn't usually violent. They're more subtle than that. I wouldn't use that word. His brow even furrows the way it always does, when he's protesting on behalf of a collection of individuals that neither know nor care that Occtis is still speaking for them, still defending the aspects of their characters that he finds defensible.
He says nothing of the sort now.
"I guess in that case, my family is far more studious than I gave them credit for," he says instead—a neutral statement. His eyes feel clouded over when he raises his head to look at Azune, from where he'd ducked it a moment ago. "Obviously they never cared to show me any of that."
There's a quiet laugh—dry and scratchy like everything that comes from his throat has been since he returned to his body. He doesn't bare his soul to Azune, but part of him feels like he doesn't have to. It's something about the way he speaks; ever since they met face-to-face for the first time Occtis has felt invaded by his presence. Like almost every sentence carries some kind of concern and understanding with it, and that intent alone is strong enough to see through everything Occtis doesn't say.
Of course, it would take more than a lucky observation by a brief acquaintance to know exactly why Occtis only addresses the violence, and not Azune's added follow-up. There's no way of knowing why Azune said it without asking, but to Occtis, it feels like the words pin him in place.
Maybe it was meant as a consolation, and nothing more. But Occtis feels an accusation in there, too—look at how wretched your family has shown themselves to be. Look at their absence of kindness and compassion reflected in your own eyes.
He squeezes them shut purposefully, and for several seconds, as though the sentiment was something more than Occtis's own imagination ascribing hostility where it wasn't meant. Then he sucks a very deliberate breath in and pushes it back out, feeling the way his lungs still stretch to accommodate the air in a way he's never quite felt his lungs before. His body hadn't been unoccupied long enough for rigor mortis to set in properly, but they still feel stiff, probably from the lack of moisture.
"I'm realizing," he says, quietly, "that I have a lot of things to learn. About—well, about both sides of that. Violence and compassion."
He manages to find Azune's gaze there again, holding it this time despite the still-maintained urge to look away. It strikes him now that more people he hardly knows have chosen to direct their concern towards him tonight than he can recall having cared even slightly about him in the entirety of the rest of his life before this.
Before he can claim to have held eye contact for more than five seconds, he looks very purposefully away from Azune, towards the group of people making their preparations to leave Dol-Makjar. "I don't know. I feel like—have you ever felt like you lost something, but then losing that thing made you realize you maybe never even had a lot more things to begin with? Does that make any sense?"
