Despite all Carlisle's anger and resentment at his circumstances, the bitterness and ire and outright wrath that caused him to rise as a Revenant in the first place boiling in his veins, Poison stands before him, defiant. The ground is decayed all around him, but she remains firm; his eyes glow with a violent, horrible light, but she does not turn away. It isn't a sin to exist, she says. He is not what he has always, always believed, even long before he died.
Her determination is simultaneously emboldening and alarming; Carlisle, still as much of a coward as when she knew him, buckles beneath the pressure, truly afraid -- afraid of what he might have done just now in his fury, afraid of who he is and isn't, afraid of her and what truths she might bring to light if he doesn't listen. She knows him, knows about his curse... seems to know about his Revenant state, as well. What else does she know? What else could she possess that gives her such conviction, allowing her to challenge an aberration like himself?
For as much as he denies the truth, he does want to know, and more importantly, he wants to be more than what he is. That much has always been certain about him. He doesn't want to be the Blight Heir, doesn't want to cause further harm to those around him, no matter how much his very nature as an undead pushes him toward such behavior. He has done enough of that already, and a tantrum will not help him make amends. What he wants right now is to be able to repay what kindness and patience he has been shown, however undeserving of it he feels. She has more faith in him than he does, and there must be a reason for that, one he will never learn if he loses himself again.
And that all counts for something. It counts for a lot.
Carlisle steps from the corroded spot he's been standing in, backing himself into the wall as he coughs again, his bitterness fading. Among his ragged breaths is an apology, one quiet, but sincere.
"I am sorry, Poison. I am sorry you had such hope for me, and that I nearly let you down, if I have not already."
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Her determination is simultaneously emboldening and alarming; Carlisle, still as much of a coward as when she knew him, buckles beneath the pressure, truly afraid -- afraid of what he might have done just now in his fury, afraid of who he is and isn't, afraid of her and what truths she might bring to light if he doesn't listen. She knows him, knows about his curse... seems to know about his Revenant state, as well. What else does she know? What else could she possess that gives her such conviction, allowing her to challenge an aberration like himself?
For as much as he denies the truth, he does want to know, and more importantly, he wants to be more than what he is. That much has always been certain about him. He doesn't want to be the Blight Heir, doesn't want to cause further harm to those around him, no matter how much his very nature as an undead pushes him toward such behavior. He has done enough of that already, and a tantrum will not help him make amends. What he wants right now is to be able to repay what kindness and patience he has been shown, however undeserving of it he feels. She has more faith in him than he does, and there must be a reason for that, one he will never learn if he loses himself again.
And that all counts for something. It counts for a lot.
Carlisle steps from the corroded spot he's been standing in, backing himself into the wall as he coughs again, his bitterness fading. Among his ragged breaths is an apology, one quiet, but sincere.
"I am sorry, Poison. I am sorry you had such hope for me, and that I nearly let you down, if I have not already."