[ God murmurs to himself, as though it's a private joke: ]
Just long enough for things to go straight to hell.
[ See, it's funny because it's literal.
Still: he weathers Gideon's bristling accusations, and fields them with the same mild tone as Harrow continues to look bewildered. At some point, he makes a good-faith gesture and leaves the pair of them alone. He goes to mind the skeletons and the distant shoreline, and let his surprise daughter say what she will in his absence.
It's much later, upon solid ground and within the dark and quiet halls of his borrowed home, that he next has the chance to speak with Harrow alone. He draws her aside before she can retreat to rest for the night. Unkind as it may be, he sits her down across from him with tea.
Really not that unkind, if you ask him: there's no better atmosphere for an awkward, apologetic explanation than sitting in his silent study with an untouched mug of tea. They're making a habit of it. ]
Now, I do know it's been a long day, but we should probably cover the basics.
[ Unkind may not be the word Harrow would use, but then again, she would never think of any cruel word in regard to this man-become-God-become-man; she could not fathom the idea of parsing him as so. Even when frustrated. Even when being told she had not seen her own heart's truest love.
Even though she is so tired, and she wants more than anything to be touch's distance from Gideon Nav, wanting but not touching, just knowing she can. ]
I am--
[ Harrow looks down at her tea, touches the mug for the grounding sensation of warmth, does not drink anything. The usual. ]
--listening, Teacher.
[ To him she is always listening. Even if she knows not the basics of what, exactly. ]
[ God, for his part, lifts the rim of the mug to his mouth and murmurs into it. ]
At least there's that.
[ He drinks, and the silence settles. He sets down the mug. The old house is very quiet; there is only the distant pattering of the skeletons, the thanergy signatures of his theorems set to ready their rooms. Empty constructs, simple things. That's all he has to his name, locally.
He regards her over the tea. He wasn't the one dredged up today from some foreign rebirth, but God looks very tired. ]
You've heard some of it from Gideon, but let me try to set things into a more reasonable order. She's right that I've been the cause of your suffering these past few months, Harrow... that, [ he considers a name, but doesn't push it: ] my Saint of Duty pressed you the way he did with my own blessing. Hell, I didn't think it would be so...
[ He gestures, vaguely, as if to encompass how Duty's methods were so. His forehead is creased with pity and an awkward sort of distress. ]
I worried for you, [ he says, softly, ] given the state in which you came to me.
[ She didn't come to him having forgotten her cavalier. The error goes unacknowledged. ]
I hoped it would be better... simpler, safer... if we could... catalyze your readiness. I'll admit, I didn't expect this.
[ Somewhere upstairs, Gideon Nav is restlessly awake. ]
[ There is a lot here that someone else might say: someone else further removed from the situation, someone more confident and aware of ownership of her own body and mind, things Harrow has never had and does not expect she ever will. It would not be agency she would understand how to use. Lording over others, yes: lording over herself, what nonsense is that.
And so she nods at first, given that is all she has—she could not argue or issue judgment either way. She argued once and the less said about that the better; the less thought about it the better, maybe if she tries hard enough she can forget it entirely. ]
I understand, [ is quiet and partially genuine: she logically understands. She follows the sequence. She takes the planet's tiniest sip of tea, enough to feel heat and not taste much. ] The root is my own error.
[ That's matter of fact. Of course she feels bad about it, but doesn't sound sad or guilty, just a scientist stating a datum point: she did things incorrectly. ]
[ This seems to make him wince, all the same. God's expression does something complicated and unhappy around the eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. He fidgets with his tea, then sets it down again, restless. ]
It was unkind of me. [ He says this like disagreement, like correction. ] I was impatient... I was scared. With Number Seven on the doorstep...
[ He does not finish this thought, either: it is left muddy and uncomfortable. He moves on to one worse. ]
You missed something of a mess, while you were under. [ Under usually meaning submerged for the battle but here meaning down for the count. ] I won't bury you in the details, not today. Not with so much else to worry about. Hell, I'm still getting the shape of it, myself.
[ He touches his mug of tea. He looks at it. He looks at her. The set of his mouth is grim, the light in his eyes gone distant. ]
The Saints of Joy and Patience, [ and he says it soft, says it grave and flat as old worn stone, ] are dead.
[ Just that. It hangs unexamined, heavy as a stormfront. The moments of silence drag. ]
None of it matters, [ God adds, conversationally, ] now that we're here. We have bigger fish to fry, apparently. Some really weird calamari to make. Our priority is dealing with whatever this town throws at us, and some of these are curveballs I really didn't see coming.
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no subject
Just long enough for things to go straight to hell.
[ See, it's funny because it's literal.
Still: he weathers Gideon's bristling accusations, and fields them with the same mild tone as Harrow continues to look bewildered. At some point, he makes a good-faith gesture and leaves the pair of them alone. He goes to mind the skeletons and the distant shoreline, and let his surprise daughter say what she will in his absence.
It's much later, upon solid ground and within the dark and quiet halls of his borrowed home, that he next has the chance to speak with Harrow alone. He draws her aside before she can retreat to rest for the night. Unkind as it may be, he sits her down across from him with tea.
Really not that unkind, if you ask him: there's no better atmosphere for an awkward, apologetic explanation than sitting in his silent study with an untouched mug of tea. They're making a habit of it. ]
Now, I do know it's been a long day, but we should probably cover the basics.
no subject
Even though she is so tired, and she wants more than anything to be touch's distance from Gideon Nav, wanting but not touching, just knowing she can. ]
I am--
[ Harrow looks down at her tea, touches the mug for the grounding sensation of warmth, does not drink anything. The usual. ]
--listening, Teacher.
[ To him she is always listening. Even if she knows not the basics of what, exactly. ]
no subject
At least there's that.
[ He drinks, and the silence settles. He sets down the mug. The old house is very quiet; there is only the distant pattering of the skeletons, the thanergy signatures of his theorems set to ready their rooms. Empty constructs, simple things. That's all he has to his name, locally.
He regards her over the tea. He wasn't the one dredged up today from some foreign rebirth, but God looks very tired. ]
You've heard some of it from Gideon, but let me try to set things into a more reasonable order. She's right that I've been the cause of your suffering these past few months, Harrow... that, [ he considers a name, but doesn't push it: ] my Saint of Duty pressed you the way he did with my own blessing. Hell, I didn't think it would be so...
[ He gestures, vaguely, as if to encompass how Duty's methods were so. His forehead is creased with pity and an awkward sort of distress. ]
I worried for you, [ he says, softly, ] given the state in which you came to me.
[ She didn't come to him having forgotten her cavalier. The error goes unacknowledged. ]
I hoped it would be better... simpler, safer... if we could... catalyze your readiness. I'll admit, I didn't expect this.
[ Somewhere upstairs, Gideon Nav is restlessly awake. ]
no subject
And so she nods at first, given that is all she has—she could not argue or issue judgment either way. She argued once and the less said about that the better; the less thought about it the better, maybe if she tries hard enough she can forget it entirely. ]
I understand, [ is quiet and partially genuine: she logically understands. She follows the sequence. She takes the planet's tiniest sip of tea, enough to feel heat and not taste much. ] The root is my own error.
[ That's matter of fact. Of course she feels bad about it, but doesn't sound sad or guilty, just a scientist stating a datum point: she did things incorrectly. ]
no subject
It was unkind of me. [ He says this like disagreement, like correction. ] I was impatient... I was scared. With Number Seven on the doorstep...
[ He does not finish this thought, either: it is left muddy and uncomfortable. He moves on to one worse. ]
You missed something of a mess, while you were under. [ Under usually meaning submerged for the battle but here meaning down for the count. ] I won't bury you in the details, not today. Not with so much else to worry about. Hell, I'm still getting the shape of it, myself.
[ He touches his mug of tea. He looks at it. He looks at her. The set of his mouth is grim, the light in his eyes gone distant. ]
The Saints of Joy and Patience, [ and he says it soft, says it grave and flat as old worn stone, ] are dead.
[ Just that. It hangs unexamined, heavy as a stormfront. The moments of silence drag. ]
None of it matters, [ God adds, conversationally, ] now that we're here. We have bigger fish to fry, apparently. Some really weird calamari to make. Our priority is dealing with whatever this town throws at us, and some of these are curveballs I really didn't see coming.