@polarean, from x ;
were it merely bloodlust aching within him : no, however much andrei dreams of death (constantly, nearly every night, memories and their variations and the sweet, sweet ache of being gone,) it is neither a desire to shed blood nor to lose it that has burrowed into his mind. were it only so easy as that! as a child, he'd sated himself on the very histories to which that corridor must lead, yearned for a moment of greatness worthy of those histories. within those shelves, he has not doubt that he would find copies of the very tomes that, year after year, his father and his tutors had pressed into his small hands. then, when he'd been so much younger, maybe a story or a fight would ease the tension in him. but it does not. head laid in his hand, the very image of listlessness, andrei frowns, fearing not what argument he might spoil with his host. let them argue! it will make no difference, either way. " yes, a thousand wars, century after century ---- would you dismiss every one of those wars as unimportant? do the movement of great peoples not change their very lives and fates? battle and death mean nothing to me. but to be part of that . . . one of the many stones that, together, become a mountain . . . " and here, i am useless to all, in every way. " here, the heart of it. the notion that has worn him thin night after night, worrying away at the existence he sustains in the library. not wishing to leave, and knowing, all the same, that even if he cannot be great out there ( for no one can : there is no way to affect history but as a mass ) he could be a part of something. how horrible, to be nothing here!
SHE WOULD, AND THAT IS THE TROUBLE. Ruby does not so much as name the price to Andrei's questions when he is seeking no answers. Yet the lives of mortal men have long since become nothing to her. Wars are fought, men kill and die, battles are lost and won. She has fought and killed and died herself a thousand times over, but there's no reason to tell him so. Instead, for a moment, she is silent, considering the man before her.
So miserable he'd seemed in his home, surrounded by people and duty and the idle gossip of nobility. Did he not find pleasure here, where he bore no obligations and suffered no fools? Was it not better here? Not with her -- Ruby was arrogant, but not so blind as to think he'd find comfort with her -- but here, with nothing but books demanding his time.
But he was a prisoner here, as much as she hated to admit it. Forced to come, unable to leave due to a promise even she could not break. He deserved fulfillment Ruby had her work, answering questions, tending to Jane, fighting off would-be heroes. She would not ask Andrei to take up a blade for her sake any more than she would allow him to see her painted in blood, all teeth and claws and hate.
Finally, Ruby knelt as best she could before the man she called husband. "I shall find for you a diversion. Something of use, if that is your wish." Not that she could imagine what it might be. "I would have in my husband a happy man."
