She nodded gently, rather at a loss of words as she made an awkward attempt to understand his weariness and his sense of loss, if not completely comprehending it. After all, Yseulte had never cared for anyone but herself all her life and was most certainly not accustomed to caring for and comforting others. So rather than face this strange, shame-like emotion welling in her belly, she simply remained in companionable silence, following Lace's gaze as Fajira drifted on the spring currents, chirping and spinning.
As Lace spoke fondly of the Qian and its history, Yseulte felt very much like an outsider. A sham, pretending to be something she was not. She belonged in the world of thieves, and murderers, of backstabbers and liars. She didn't deserve belong to this...this honorable family. The word was foreign to her in a way that made her heart ache strangely. It had been doing that a lot lately—and she wished the heart wasn't such a weak, vulnerable organ, and that it didn't feel so much.
Listening in silence, she came to the conclusion there was far more tragedy and loss in the Edge than she had initially realized. She had heard gossip and current events, but generally these delicate threads of information had been snipped off or were missing bits and pieces, like a woven tapestry not quite finished. She was glad that Lace had finished weaving it for her, in a soft voice filled with warmth and concern. Still gazing at the sea, she wondered what it must be like to care about someone other than oneself. She had done so, once, long ago, and had simply cared too much. To this day, it had been the most emotionally devastating crime she had ever done.
And now that he mentioned the Plague, she wondered glumly if she would better fit there than here. Sounded like her sort of crowd, the Plague. And she was not proud of it. But perhaps that was what made her different from them, and that was why she needed the Edge, even if it didn't specifically need her just yet. Just like Zjarri had desperately needed Yildun and her quiet, guiding light, Yseulte needed a light of her own. Perhaps the Edge could supply her with that, if she could give something in return.
Not her heart, certainly. Baby steps.
Catching a note of pain in Lace's weary voice when he mentioned their queen, the DragonHeart. Yseulte glanced at him, wondering in curious awe at the crevices of worry plaguing his face. He was not young, but not old, either. In his prime, certainly. But his eyes spoke a different story—such ageless eyes, like the sun's everlasting light. What had those eyes seen in his lifetime that had fashioned such an old soul for such a young face?
Yseulte was not fooled by the forced smile on his gray lips after he finished educating her on the delicate history of the Edge, but she let it pass without comment. She did not offer him a smile of reassurance in return, because that was simply how she was. To promise him everything would be all right would be a lie, and Yseulte was determined to discard that habit among the melting snow. She considered her reply to his question, disconcerted by his caring, benevolent nature.
"I've enjoyed my time here," she said at last, and that at least, was the truth. It had been a pleasant experience, roaming through the soft green of the trees and sleeping near the sea, lulled to sleep by the waves and the cries of gulls. She looked away from him, watching his Fajira swirl through the air. "Lace..." His name on her lips is nearly lost to the murmur of the sea, her usual proud voice has gone quiet, uncertain, and hesitant. She has never felt so vulnerable in her entire life, and she hates herself for it.
"All my life, I've only ever destroyed. I wish to create."
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