"Ah." Claudius had found his other self so condescending, an admission of admiration takes him surprise. Of course they’d talked around it, Claudius curtly insisting on a precise account of everyone he’d spoken to, everything he said. The other Claudius raised his eyebrows over eyes so narrow and bright they looked empty — Claudius could easily imagine being pinned on that a gaze, compelled to give up all his faults in evidence.
“Keeping secrets?” he asked. “I suppose we wouldn’t be us without them. What secrets do you imagine I’d divulge to a stranger that you haven’t shared in all your time here?”
Claudius glared. “It’s not a matter of what it’s a matter of who. I have shared my secrets, as a matter of fact, but there’s a young lady I’ve resolved to tell in my own time.”
“An old secret, then. One you believed I’d know, even though we’re from separate worlds, and at some point our paths diverged.” With a too-familiar smirk and shake of his head — how frustrating that flippancy was from the other side — he said, “Believe me, I’m an old hand at keeping cards close to my chest. You know because you lived through it. Unless you were a good child, who never hid a heretical thought?”
It was cruel, Claudius knows — he knew even then — to demand the man who grew up from that child keep hiding the truth no matter where he went. Their paths diverged, but not that far. The other Claudius chided him for being controlling — controlling and condescending were the twin barbs exchanged between them, but it was self-control, self-condescension. Claudius always spoke down to himself.
And then the other Claudius surprised him, Saying, “Congratulations, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Wangji told me,” there was a heavy pause, swiftly covered with a lightening smile, “about your upcoming nuptials. Tell me everything.”
Claudius could almost roll his eyes. Face to face, of course his other self swerved, switching thoughts like a shell game to something less vulnerable. Even now, he finds such praise hard to believe. How many times, as a young man, had Claudius recoiled in disgust from his own mind, from the sins of the heart no prayer could lift? Except he recalls how he felt, when Gertrude’s eyes were on his, when she said, You gave me my freedom. How his heart filled with love and hope as he kissed her.
Those stories, which seemed so frivolous, about asking Gertrude what animals little girls liked so he could stitch Rielle something soft to hold, take on new meaning. He thinks of Tress's eyes, struggling to understand everything Claudius just told her, and the conviction building in his chest that if he had to kill again to keep her safe, he'd do it without repenting. "I didn't know I was capable," he says, slow as he lets it sink in, "of being so kind to myself."
no subject
“Keeping secrets?” he asked. “I suppose we wouldn’t be us without them. What secrets do you imagine I’d divulge to a stranger that you haven’t shared in all your time here?”
Claudius glared. “It’s not a matter of what it’s a matter of who. I have shared my secrets, as a matter of fact, but there’s a young lady I’ve resolved to tell in my own time.”
“An old secret, then. One you believed I’d know, even though we’re from separate worlds, and at some point our paths diverged.” With a too-familiar smirk and shake of his head — how frustrating that flippancy was from the other side — he said, “Believe me, I’m an old hand at keeping cards close to my chest. You know because you lived through it. Unless you were a good child, who never hid a heretical thought?”
It was cruel, Claudius knows — he knew even then — to demand the man who grew up from that child keep hiding the truth no matter where he went. Their paths diverged, but not that far. The other Claudius chided him for being controlling — controlling and condescending were the twin barbs exchanged between them, but it was self-control, self-condescension. Claudius always spoke down to himself.
And then the other Claudius surprised him, Saying, “Congratulations, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Wangji told me,” there was a heavy pause, swiftly covered with a lightening smile, “about your upcoming nuptials. Tell me everything.”
Claudius could almost roll his eyes. Face to face, of course his other self swerved, switching thoughts like a shell game to something less vulnerable. Even now, he finds such praise hard to believe. How many times, as a young man, had Claudius recoiled in disgust from his own mind, from the sins of the heart no prayer could lift? Except he recalls how he felt, when Gertrude’s eyes were on his, when she said, You gave me my freedom. How his heart filled with love and hope as he kissed her.
Those stories, which seemed so frivolous, about asking Gertrude what animals little girls liked so he could stitch Rielle something soft to hold, take on new meaning. He thinks of Tress's eyes, struggling to understand everything Claudius just told her, and the conviction building in his chest that if he had to kill again to keep her safe, he'd do it without repenting. "I didn't know I was capable," he says, slow as he lets it sink in, "of being so kind to myself."