[Is this what they do?! . . . In contrast to Ritsuka, Kadoc does actually feel himself relaxing by inches as they burn the herbs, though he's not about to attribute that to the herbs themselves. It's more a matter of just having time to process and cope with this in his head while going through a repetitive, admittedly soothing gesture. There's just something about burning shit. It could be that having to do this in silence, while at least somewhat focusing on the task at hand, actually was the best way this could have happened after all; what was the alternative? What would he have done if he'd run into her in the bazaar or something? Flipped out and caused a scene for no real reason?
Because there really is no reason. He has a truce with Chaldea here, unless she's not interested in maintaining that—and maybe she won't be. Ah, there it is, the core of the anxiety within him now; he's got it. Maybe she won't be. Why would she be, after everything he's done to them? It's never made sense to him that Gareth and Gawain accept him, or even that Beowulf is grudgingly willing to call truce with him. He's been lucky to get off as easy as he has. And now the person with the most reason to hold a serious grudge is here, and it's not like back on the Shadow Border, where she'd needed information from him and he'd been their prisoner. Now they're just here. She'll turn them all against him, and he'll deserve it. He can't stand up to Chaldea on his own. And why should he even try? These are his just desserts.
And with all of that swimming in his head—or maybe he's the one swimming in it, drowning, being pulled under by the ankle by a whirlpool of anxieties—
When he presses his palms to hers, that's what she'll feel. Fear. Anxiety, guilt, shame, anticipation, envy and jealousy both distinct yet conjoined.
And, along with that, a sick sense of joy in resignation, the feeling of the other shoe having not only dropped, but crashing right through the floor to open up a yawning pit and the urge to just leap right into it.]
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Because there really is no reason. He has a truce with Chaldea here, unless she's not interested in maintaining that—and maybe she won't be. Ah, there it is, the core of the anxiety within him now; he's got it. Maybe she won't be. Why would she be, after everything he's done to them? It's never made sense to him that Gareth and Gawain accept him, or even that Beowulf is grudgingly willing to call truce with him. He's been lucky to get off as easy as he has. And now the person with the most reason to hold a serious grudge is here, and it's not like back on the Shadow Border, where she'd needed information from him and he'd been their prisoner. Now they're just here. She'll turn them all against him, and he'll deserve it. He can't stand up to Chaldea on his own. And why should he even try? These are his just desserts.
And with all of that swimming in his head—or maybe he's the one swimming in it, drowning, being pulled under by the ankle by a whirlpool of anxieties—
When he presses his palms to hers, that's what she'll feel. Fear. Anxiety, guilt, shame, anticipation, envy and jealousy both distinct yet conjoined.
And, along with that, a sick sense of joy in resignation, the feeling of the other shoe having not only dropped, but crashing right through the floor to open up a yawning pit and the urge to just leap right into it.]