[It's evident fairly quickly that this isn't a happy story. This is something deep, something buried beneath layers of that careless grin and flippant words, something that Quentin carries beneath his ribs like an old wound. Or -- not so old, not with the tenderness in his voice, the weight of every word. Not so old at all.
Killed, Quentin says, and Koby is already still, but he goes even quieter at the word, at the picture being painted. A Regent -- a ruler, a general of some kind? Someone with power -- and a struggle wherein Quentin's father tried to protect him. It's whispering something that turns Koby's stomach, makes him think of blood on a splintered deck, of the way a crew splinters too, when a captain dies. Dies protecting a son, a talented son with a gift that caught the eye of someone dangerous, someone who attacked to gain control of that gift. And then -- and then what? What happens next, when a ship is conquered, when the resistance is destroyed?
To the victor go the spoils, of course. Koby knows that. He's seen it.
He doesn't ask any of those questions. They build up in his throat, threaten to choke him for a moment, but Koby just presses closer, warm against Quentin's side, squeezing their laced fingers tight for a moment. I'm sorry, is there, and it wasn't your fault, but Koby knows damn well how deep guilt weaves it's roots into someone's soul, where no amount of platitudes can uproot it. So instead he tugs Quentin's hand up, kisses his wrist, softly.]
He sounds wonderful. [Because he does. Because that's who he is in Quentin's mind -- wonderful and alive, still.] And...he knew you can't help it when you fall in love. Especially with the sea. [Again, hidden in the words: not your fault, he must've known it wasn't your fault.]
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Killed, Quentin says, and Koby is already still, but he goes even quieter at the word, at the picture being painted. A Regent -- a ruler, a general of some kind? Someone with power -- and a struggle wherein Quentin's father tried to protect him. It's whispering something that turns Koby's stomach, makes him think of blood on a splintered deck, of the way a crew splinters too, when a captain dies. Dies protecting a son, a talented son with a gift that caught the eye of someone dangerous, someone who attacked to gain control of that gift. And then -- and then what? What happens next, when a ship is conquered, when the resistance is destroyed?
To the victor go the spoils, of course. Koby knows that. He's seen it.
He doesn't ask any of those questions. They build up in his throat, threaten to choke him for a moment, but Koby just presses closer, warm against Quentin's side, squeezing their laced fingers tight for a moment. I'm sorry, is there, and it wasn't your fault, but Koby knows damn well how deep guilt weaves it's roots into someone's soul, where no amount of platitudes can uproot it. So instead he tugs Quentin's hand up, kisses his wrist, softly.]
He sounds wonderful. [Because he does. Because that's who he is in Quentin's mind -- wonderful and alive, still.] And...he knew you can't help it when you fall in love. Especially with the sea. [Again, hidden in the words: not your fault, he must've known it wasn't your fault.]