[ At first, Maia is not sure what to make of Geralt's silence, his steady yellow gaze. For him, the interval between when he finishes speaking and when Geralt asks his question is nerve-wracking, though he carefully does not allow any sign of his trepidation. It takes some effort, not to apologize if he has given offense. A few months ago, when he was even less confident in his own words and decisions, he might not have managed it.
But then Geralt asks his question, smiles, says he is impressed, and Maia's ability to hide his feelings flies out the window. His skin is too dark to show much of a blush, but his face goes hot nonetheless, and his surprised small laugh gives him away. He shakes his head, hands coming up to touch his hair, as if checking it has not fallen out of place - but the gesture is clearly one of flustered pleasure. ]
You flatter us, Mer Geralt. We are no poet. Truthfully- one of the nicknames whispered about us at court behind our back is Edrehasivar Half-Tongue, for we often... do not know what to say. It is easier, to speak to someone who does not rush us, and who listens. So... we thank you. Truly.
[ The waiter, seizing the brief lull in their conversation, approaches the table, and Maia and Geralt place their orders. When he is gone, Maia fiddles with the silverware and, still a little flustered from the compliment, says: ]
But we wish there were aught we could do, to aid you. To give you the peace you cannot find.
[ The best part about being the emperor was having the ability to help. To shield Celehar from his sister's whims. To forgive Dazhis and give him a second chance. To send coal to the Danivada when they could not afford it. But what Geralt described would be beyond his aid, even if they were back in Ethuveraz. He could not undo the past. ]
Though we cannot approve of- of what was done to you, to obtain them, in sooth your abilities sound incredible. Can you really... see the spirits of the dead?
no subject
But then Geralt asks his question, smiles, says he is impressed, and Maia's ability to hide his feelings flies out the window. His skin is too dark to show much of a blush, but his face goes hot nonetheless, and his surprised small laugh gives him away. He shakes his head, hands coming up to touch his hair, as if checking it has not fallen out of place - but the gesture is clearly one of flustered pleasure. ]
You flatter us, Mer Geralt. We are no poet. Truthfully- one of the nicknames whispered about us at court behind our back is Edrehasivar Half-Tongue, for we often... do not know what to say. It is easier, to speak to someone who does not rush us, and who listens. So... we thank you. Truly.
[ The waiter, seizing the brief lull in their conversation, approaches the table, and Maia and Geralt place their orders. When he is gone, Maia fiddles with the silverware and, still a little flustered from the compliment, says: ]
But we wish there were aught we could do, to aid you. To give you the peace you cannot find.
[ The best part about being the emperor was having the ability to help. To shield Celehar from his sister's whims. To forgive Dazhis and give him a second chance. To send coal to the Danivada when they could not afford it. But what Geralt described would be beyond his aid, even if they were back in Ethuveraz. He could not undo the past. ]
Though we cannot approve of- of what was done to you, to obtain them, in sooth your abilities sound incredible. Can you really... see the spirits of the dead?