Ronan doesn't look at Rhy. He walks toward the row of shelves where his various throwaway dreams are on display, dozens of beautiful and strange and useless trinkets dreamt for the sole purpose of keeping him alive one more day. Kylo keeps them all, because even these ridiculous little pieces of Ronan are too precious for him to discard.
This, he thinks, is what love is supposed to look like.
Ronan runs his finger over a peacock feather that emits a sound like a harp strum. "I've never killed anyone," he says, his voice wry, as if that's funny in hindsight. "It would have been so much easier if I did. Do you know how hard it is to destroy a world without killing anyone? I deserve a fucking medal."
He moves on, picking up a knife and poking the tip of it against the wall. The blade begins to melt like hot wax, dripping down slowly, then reforming into a blade when Ronan draws it back.
"Dreamers step lightly," he continues, echoing the words of his teacher. "That's the difference between us and humans. When a human blows something up, people die. They don't know how to do it any other way. It's sad, when you think about it. Sometimes all they get is a bunch of shit choices and they have to pick the least shitty. And people still die. The Greeks wrote a bunch of plays about it. Speaking of the Greeks..."
Ronan puts the knife down and finally turns around to face Rhy. There's another dream in his hand now — a silvery orb — and he fidgets with it between his thumb and forefinger.
"Did you know the Greek word for tragedy also means song? Which comes from the word for goat? Because the first songs were sung while sacrificing a goat. Humans don't know how to make anything beautiful without spilling blood. I feel sorry for them."
no subject
Ronan doesn't look at Rhy. He walks toward the row of shelves where his various throwaway dreams are on display, dozens of beautiful and strange and useless trinkets dreamt for the sole purpose of keeping him alive one more day. Kylo keeps them all, because even these ridiculous little pieces of Ronan are too precious for him to discard.
This, he thinks, is what love is supposed to look like.
Ronan runs his finger over a peacock feather that emits a sound like a harp strum. "I've never killed anyone," he says, his voice wry, as if that's funny in hindsight. "It would have been so much easier if I did. Do you know how hard it is to destroy a world without killing anyone? I deserve a fucking medal."
He moves on, picking up a knife and poking the tip of it against the wall. The blade begins to melt like hot wax, dripping down slowly, then reforming into a blade when Ronan draws it back.
"Dreamers step lightly," he continues, echoing the words of his teacher. "That's the difference between us and humans. When a human blows something up, people die. They don't know how to do it any other way. It's sad, when you think about it. Sometimes all they get is a bunch of shit choices and they have to pick the least shitty. And people still die. The Greeks wrote a bunch of plays about it. Speaking of the Greeks..."
Ronan puts the knife down and finally turns around to face Rhy. There's another dream in his hand now — a silvery orb — and he fidgets with it between his thumb and forefinger.
"Did you know the Greek word for tragedy also means song? Which comes from the word for goat? Because the first songs were sung while sacrificing a goat. Humans don't know how to make anything beautiful without spilling blood. I feel sorry for them."