[So many soft, sweet assurances in that choked-up voice, and Diavolo hangs on to every last one. Doppio has a way of underselling his capabilities. It's true that his beliefs could be articulated more eloquently, but Doppio has never been the type for flowery words or extended metaphors. Nor has he ever needed to be; that is Diavolo's expertise, and Doppio's is to bluntly argue against him when circumstance calls for a second opinion. What good is an underboss who mindlessly agrees with him? Were he meant to always be correct, then he would not have a Doppio to begin with. He squeezes Doppio's cool hand tight, warming it in his own as he feels for anything, but not a single twinge of pain flows between them. There is only one explanation: Doppio's truth and his truth are not the same. Which, then, is correct?]
Trying — and failing.
[It would be so wonderful to shut himself away from the world, close his eyes and sink in to Doppio's every lingering word and believe him with his whole heart. The magic that grips him on him won't allow him this one small comfort. He's driven to refute every last point — he needs to, just as he needs to breathe.]
The end of Requiem was not the end of my dying. [Slowly, he recites:] Trish, beneath the waves. I struggled, but in the end, I knew there was no use in fighting. Cervo, when I was lost and alone. I begged. I knew struggling was pointless, and so I let him devour me. The parasitic flowers choked the life from me because I allowed them to — because I would rather embrace death than reveal that which I kept hidden. I curled up beside you and died in your arms when I could have confessed to you everything we were. It was... the safer option to keep you in the dark rather than risk losing everything. If I'd dared to tell you the truth and for my efforts woken up all alone...
[It doesn't matter. It didn't happen. Even worse than the malingering past are all the "what-ifs" that plague him. What if there was a world where everything went wrong, one where he fell so much further, loneliness and suffering stretching on into eternity? What if some chain of events led to a life of joy and triumph, if only he'd made the right decisions, if only he hadn't faltered when it mattered most? It's a cruel thought that digs at him, that somehow, some way, things could have been different.]
Mana's twisting of my words led to my transformation into a waldgeist — and when I woke up, stiff and sore and dead, I knew it was because of the way I had phrased my request. And though I cannot count all times I was forced to relive my past in that nightmare... I allowed that shade to put a stop to it, even if only briefly. A mercy killing, and I welcomed it openly. Knowing all of this, can you still say that I'm trying, Doppio? Five deaths that I can count as real — each of them my own fault. It could have been six, had I not escaped from that gargoyle with my life.
[And, with a slow breath, he's no longer driven by desperation. The headache subsides, the compulsion ebbs away, and he is left feeling empty in its absence. Exhausted to the core, he wants nothing more than to drop the topic for good and rest. But when he thinks of leaving it at this, another urge spikes within him — one last thought that he cannot let go of.
He leans himself forward, cautious in every movement, so keenly aware of the bulk of his horns, and he comes to rest his head against Doppio's shoulder. He doesn't have to speak loud to carry his voice, now; so close to Doppio's soft ears, there's no need for much more than a whisper. There's no risk of being overheard even as he confesses the most shameful of his weaknesses.]
But... you aren't entirely wrong. I have tried. Just once, I escaped. I fought with everything I had, and...
[Even now, his chest sometimes aches where those claws ripped through his flesh. For reasons of pride, he almost let himself bleed out then and there rather than allow that lich to come to his aid. But if he died that night, Doppio would be left alone without him, and...]
I want to fight. I want— to live. I know it's absurd for me to set my sights on something so low after everything I had once achieved. Truthfully, more than anything, I wish we could return to the past we shared. With greater foresight, we could set those miserable weeks right, and we would live the rest of our lives the way we were always meant to. But... I know that to be an impossibility.
[There are too many variables. Doppio is dead at home, and Diavolo is something far worse. Even with the powers of gods, there is no guarantee that anything could ever be right again.]
And so I've found myself hoping that — even if I can't always be with you — I might one day be able to carve out a place in this world that is mine. Somewhere with safety, comfort, happiness, warmth... all the things I need but cannot seem to find. That is what I try to achieve.
no subject
Trying — and failing.
[It would be so wonderful to shut himself away from the world, close his eyes and sink in to Doppio's every lingering word and believe him with his whole heart. The magic that grips him on him won't allow him this one small comfort. He's driven to refute every last point — he needs to, just as he needs to breathe.]
The end of Requiem was not the end of my dying. [Slowly, he recites:] Trish, beneath the waves. I struggled, but in the end, I knew there was no use in fighting. Cervo, when I was lost and alone. I begged. I knew struggling was pointless, and so I let him devour me. The parasitic flowers choked the life from me because I allowed them to — because I would rather embrace death than reveal that which I kept hidden. I curled up beside you and died in your arms when I could have confessed to you everything we were. It was... the safer option to keep you in the dark rather than risk losing everything. If I'd dared to tell you the truth and for my efforts woken up all alone...
[It doesn't matter. It didn't happen. Even worse than the malingering past are all the "what-ifs" that plague him. What if there was a world where everything went wrong, one where he fell so much further, loneliness and suffering stretching on into eternity? What if some chain of events led to a life of joy and triumph, if only he'd made the right decisions, if only he hadn't faltered when it mattered most? It's a cruel thought that digs at him, that somehow, some way, things could have been different.]
Mana's twisting of my words led to my transformation into a waldgeist — and when I woke up, stiff and sore and dead, I knew it was because of the way I had phrased my request. And though I cannot count all times I was forced to relive my past in that nightmare... I allowed that shade to put a stop to it, even if only briefly. A mercy killing, and I welcomed it openly. Knowing all of this, can you still say that I'm trying, Doppio? Five deaths that I can count as real — each of them my own fault. It could have been six, had I not escaped from that gargoyle with my life.
[And, with a slow breath, he's no longer driven by desperation. The headache subsides, the compulsion ebbs away, and he is left feeling empty in its absence. Exhausted to the core, he wants nothing more than to drop the topic for good and rest. But when he thinks of leaving it at this, another urge spikes within him — one last thought that he cannot let go of.
He leans himself forward, cautious in every movement, so keenly aware of the bulk of his horns, and he comes to rest his head against Doppio's shoulder. He doesn't have to speak loud to carry his voice, now; so close to Doppio's soft ears, there's no need for much more than a whisper. There's no risk of being overheard even as he confesses the most shameful of his weaknesses.]
But... you aren't entirely wrong. I have tried. Just once, I escaped. I fought with everything I had, and...
[Even now, his chest sometimes aches where those claws ripped through his flesh. For reasons of pride, he almost let himself bleed out then and there rather than allow that lich to come to his aid. But if he died that night, Doppio would be left alone without him, and...]
I want to fight. I want— to live. I know it's absurd for me to set my sights on something so low after everything I had once achieved. Truthfully, more than anything, I wish we could return to the past we shared. With greater foresight, we could set those miserable weeks right, and we would live the rest of our lives the way we were always meant to. But... I know that to be an impossibility.
[There are too many variables. Doppio is dead at home, and Diavolo is something far worse. Even with the powers of gods, there is no guarantee that anything could ever be right again.]
And so I've found myself hoping that — even if I can't always be with you — I might one day be able to carve out a place in this world that is mine. Somewhere with safety, comfort, happiness, warmth... all the things I need but cannot seem to find. That is what I try to achieve.