[ As McGillis steps into the clearing, Gaelio has nearly succeeded. Nearly. His right hand, following a stiff line to his side, has nearly stilled. In the interim, it jerks, fingers seismic with the clashing of compulsions.
Without having to look, he knows McGillis maintained the distance. He feels it. He must then clamber past a blockage, a rooting resistance that frays where it does not dig, to turn his face toward McGillis, so to gauge the same, and more.
As expected, no traces remain of that which could not be born, his resolve newly made. Two years, and the days counted, pacing deeper furrows through his savaged mind with the tireless effort to understand and so become. To understand and so take hold of what must be done, without doubt. Finally without doubt. He has gone mad with doubt, and mad with doubt, and mad.
It may be another mask, or it may have always been so. McGillis's control has ever been superb, and the likelihood of something bleeding through feels more improbable the more his heart times the space from it. Instead, the mysticism of the forest and the power suffusing his mind had done it once more, without his realizing. Far more likely that by remembering those dreams, triggered by tone, upon turning, he'd tricked himself with another illusion.
But it -- to look at McGillis, those eyes pressed cool against his, without violent motion tearing toward him or tearing himself again to tatters -- the shaking in his hand intensifies.
When he flicks his gaze back to the smoke that spoke fire, readying a movement thus, McGillis speaks terms, and Gaelio keeps still.
Insanity, to finish with proposing that. A truce.
Gaelio's lip curls and he feels in it the snarl. He must unwire his jaw to grit out the words, but does not yet push back his eyes. ]
1/2 sry i'm incorrigible
Without having to look, he knows McGillis maintained the distance. He feels it. He must then clamber past a blockage, a rooting resistance that frays where it does not dig, to turn his face toward McGillis, so to gauge the same, and more.
As expected, no traces remain of that which could not be born, his resolve newly made. Two years, and the days counted, pacing deeper furrows through his savaged mind with the tireless effort to understand and so become. To understand and so take hold of what must be done, without doubt. Finally without doubt. He has gone mad with doubt, and mad with doubt, and mad.
It may be another mask, or it may have always been so. McGillis's control has ever been superb, and the likelihood of something bleeding through feels more improbable the more his heart times the space from it. Instead, the mysticism of the forest and the power suffusing his mind had done it once more, without his realizing. Far more likely that by remembering those dreams, triggered by tone, upon turning, he'd tricked himself with another illusion.
But it -- to look at McGillis, those eyes pressed cool against his, without violent motion tearing toward him or tearing himself again to tatters -- the shaking in his hand intensifies.
When he flicks his gaze back to the smoke that spoke fire, readying a movement thus, McGillis speaks terms, and Gaelio keeps still.
Insanity, to finish with proposing that. A truce.
Gaelio's lip curls and he feels in it the snarl. He must unwire his jaw to grit out the words, but does not yet push back his eyes. ]
A truce? You really are...