Post by Dorien on Nov 8, 2010 15:19:26 GMT -5
((Also known as "DORIEN HAS NO IDEA HOW TO HANDLE TEENAGERS".))
Anton is restless. The house has been empty of its owner for some time now, and in a slightly different and less comforting fashion than the draenei's past absences have been. Anton has by now become familiar with the vagaries of Anshir's bookkeeping tendencies, and thing seem... a little -too- neat. Too tidy. Like he wasn't planning to come back to them for a very long time, if at all.
And so, that on top of the earthquakes (and the resultant issues with things falling over at the shop), and the redhead's general steady paranoia, has left him basically pacing the length of the house, back and forth, tidying this, moving that, and muttering vaguely to himself. He should go to the shop though. Make sure nothing has broken. Again. Pace, pace, pace.
Dorien had fought in his head about how he should dress. His usual day-to-day outfit seemed a bit too low key for the news he was about to bring, but if he dressed up fancy enough, maybe Anton would suspect the worse...
He ended up settling for something in the middle, not to shiny or bland. Hopefully, hopefully... He stops in front of the door, twitching his collar back into place, more of a nervous motion than an actual need. Checking his bag for a third time, making sure the familiar weight was there, before he figures he had wasted enough time.
He knocks.
The door cracks open after some time, framed by tanned skin, freckles, and a couple of stray locks of scarlet hair. Once the knocker is identified though, the door creaks open to reveal the youth behind it.
He's actually not wearing much; a pair of dark colored silk pants and what looks like a short elven housecoat of dark green, covered in lighter green vines. It hangs open, baring his chest... and probably the fact he's been getting quite a bit of exercise lately.
His greeting is somewhat flat-sounding though, "Yes? What is it."
"Er, hey Anton," Dorien starts with, figuring since the boy's in boy's clothes, might as well use the male name. "Do you mind if I come in...?"
Anton's eyes narrow slightly, suspicious, but nods a little and lets him in. The parlor on the other side is tidy, comprised of a few large couches and a low table, the room decorated tastefully with a few Draenic artifacts, but nothing ostentatious.
Although he's been living here for months, it seems the only sign of his presence, at least in public, is a worn looking prayerbook with a red seal on the cover, lying by the lamp in the corner.
Dorien steps inside, offering the new room a quick glance, but he's not really that interested in paying attention to it. He stops, after taking a few steps into the room, and goes through his satchel, pulling out a wrapped, and heavy, object. He holds it out to Anton quietly.
He frowns, taking it. "What's this?" He shifts the package carefully in his broad hands, judging its weight, but his gaze still rests very firmly on Dorien. You, ser, had better explain yourself.
"One of Anshir's maces."
Anton's expression shuts down, somewhat, green eyes going hard. "How." It's soft, but there's a whisper of threat behind the word all the same. Perhaps not aimed at Dorien... at least not yet, but rising like something awful at the bottom of a very deep, very still lake. "Tell me."
Dorien winces. "Do you want to sit down?" He hasn't moved though, still standing as still as he was before. No sudden movements! No need to provoke!
"No." It wouldn't be so bad if he'd offer denial, or sorrow, or much of -anything- besides that cold stare. Not making any sudden moves is probably a good plan right now, though. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why he wants the details either. Someone is probably going to die.
Horribly.
Dorien runs a hand through his hair, a nervous motion as he tries to figure out what he was going to say, or how he was going to word this. Light, this is so hard... Hand still half in his hair, the redhead sighs. "Anshir... Died," he speaks quietly, with some remorse in his voice. "He died trying to fight for what he... Felt a close tie to. What he stood for."
Paper crinkles slightly as Anton's grip tightens around the weapon. "That's... so like him," he murmurs, "Were you there? Did you see that he was avenged?" He'd better have, if the youth's tone is anything to judge by.
"I was there, yes. He asked me to look after you, even after I kept urging that he should heal himself. And I promised that I would. Look after you, that is." Dorien nods slowly. "We gave him a nice burial."
Anton's eyes narrow subtly. "That's not what I asked," he murmurs. "Did you deal with those responsible? Because if you didn't, I will." A short pause, "And I don't need 'taking care of'. I'm not a child. Besides, everyone close to me -dies-, Dorien!" It's almost a snarl, though it fades quickly. "Everyone! How can I do anything but survive on my OWN..."
"It doesn't mean you have to be lonely, Anton. I can be here for you, just as Anshir was before. If you need anyone to talk to, to share anything that either makes you happy or sad, feel free to come see me. That's what I'll do. Everyone needs someone else, if at least for a little human contact!"
Anton actually glares at him now. "How DARE you say that! You pushed me -away-! You didn't WANT me. You never -cared-! And now you think that just because this happened I'd FORGET?" The cold layer over the still lake seems to have shattered abruptly, revealing a sea of hurt and anger.
He takes a step closer, grip tightening again on the weapon... and if Dory's paying any attention, it seems more like he might be about ready to swing it, rather than just hang onto it.
"You come here, telling me that Anshir is dead, and thinking you can REPLACE him? The only one who's EVER TREATED ME LIKE A FEELING PERSON?!'
"I didn't want you in the sense that you wanted me! You're a friend, I'll talk to you, listen to you! Someone to look after and care for but I really don't need to be groped in the middle of the night!" Dorien does a quick cutting motion with his hand through the air, a clear 'no'. "And I don't expect to replace Anshir! I'm just offering what I always have!"
"Don't lie to me! You avoid me! You don't want to talk to me, you think I'm some kind of a FREAK!" This time it's almost a wail. "Just like EVERYONE ELSE. Get OUT! Just GO. I don't NEED your FALSE SYMPATHY!"
Tears have welled up in the youth's eyes now, trickling down his cheeks, but he's still glaring fiercely at Dorien through them.
"I don't avoid you! You're not a freak, Anton!" He doesn't move, still standing as he was before, although his hands have curled into fists at his side. "It's not false sympathy. I do want to listen to what you want to say. If everyone else doesn't want to get to know you, it's their own damn fault for not offering you the time."
Anton seems to have resorted to hugging the wrapped weapon to his chest like some kind of security blanket, jaw tense and teeth gritted. He's plainly fighting fiercely not to just have a breakdown on the spot.
"Why should I believe you," he eventually rasps, more quietly. "People always get to know me and then stop wanting to talk to me at all. I just... I wanted you to like me, that's all. That's all I wanted. But you pushed me away and ran off. Just like everyone else does. Ex...except Mister Anshir..."
"I like you, but not like that, Anton. There's such a thing as coming on a bit too strong," Dorien sighs, pressing his hand against his forehead. "I didn't mean to run off, things... Got hectic. But I'm back in Stormwind now."
"I tried being less obvious and you ignored it!"
"But I don't..." Dorien pauses, pressing his fingers against his temple. "You're nice, Anton. You're very nice, but I don't want you like that. I'm not interested like that. Friend, I am interested in."
Anton deflates slightly, looking down at last, "You could have -said-..." The pain in his voice doesn't seem to have slacked off much, but at least he doesn't look like he's going to try and bash Dory's skull in anymore.
Instead, he just hugs the mace to his chest and stares at the carpet dully.
"... I'm pretty sure I have."
Anton doesn't really reply... in fact, he just turns and scuffs back to the sofa, flopping down on it.
"I'm sorry."
Anton silently unwraps the mace, and runs his fingers along the handle. He doesn't look up, though.
"I can't say... he was like a father," the redhead murmurs, barely audible, "Because I never really had one. But he was kind." A hand scrubs at an eye. "So kind."
"I can show you where we ended up burying him, if that'll help."
He shakes his head, "... not yet." It's a sigh.
Dorien nods. "Feel free to talk to me, to ask me where when you're ready."
Anton nods mutely, still staring at the weapon. To say he looks miserable is probably an understatement, but he seems to be trying to stuff his sorrow back in some internal box.
"... Do you want a hug?" Usually Dorien would have been doing so by now, but he isn't so sure with Anton. He stood in the same spot as before, fingers twisting.
Anton makes a noise. It might've been an attempt at a bitter laugh, but it just comes out as a generally unhappy sound. "Don't let me impose or anything," he mutters softly. "I'll...make do. I always do."
"You wouldn't be imposing," the older man shakes his head.
Anton is just quiet again for a good while, apparently losing some ground on stifling his sorrow, since it looks like he's about to cry again.
Dorien moves over, dropping his satchel along the way, to sit down beside Anton. He wraps an arm around the boy's shoulders, trying to guide the younger man to rest his head against Dorien's chest.
There's a little resistance at first, but it doesn't last. Nor, apparently, does his grip on his sorrow. Almost as soon as his head settles, Anton's shoulders shake as he starts to mourn in earnest, sobbing into Dorien's vest. Evidently there was a -lot- more involved than just Anshir letting the youth stay with him.
Dorien rubs Anton's back, hand doing easy, soothing motions. Crying's good for you, he hears. Just let it all out.
He takes a good while to wind down, eventually sagging against the older man's side, his face hidden by his long hair. He's remarkably solid, really; not large-framed at all, but definitely a long way from skinny. Who knew.
He heaves an unsteady sigh, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"Feeling a bit better?" Humour isn't probably the best idea, but sometimes it's hard to kick a habit. He pats Anton on the back one final time, keeping his hand there. He doesn't move in any other way though.
Anton shakes his head silently, though he makes no move to pull away. If anything, the ginger pat looks like it might set him off again, but he squares his jaw and sits on it.
Eventually, he murmurs, "... You don't have to stay if you don't want to. I... have..things I should probably see to. A...Anshir didn't like... loose ends left."
"If you're sure," Dorien nods, smiling down at the boy. "Feel free to come and find me though, if you need someone."
"I wouldn't want to intrude," he mumbles. "I'll... be okay. I just need some time."
"You wouldn't be intruding, and I can understand that."
Anton waves a hand vaguely before resting it on the head of the mace again. He looks totally worn down.
Dorien continues sitting, and probably won't move until Anton moves first. Always his choice. "I'm sorry," he mutters again.
Well, if he's going to leave it up to Anton, he may be there for awhile. The young rogue doesn't seem particularly inclined to move anytime soon. "It's.... just the way life is," he murmurs, miserably. "At least...mine."
"I really don't think so. Everyone's life has their rough patches, you can't expect that you're just the sink for all the 'bad stuff'." Dorien shrugs.
He makes a soft, bitter-sounding noise. "Other people, maybe, have 'patches'. My whole life has been trying to make the most of misery. For every small success, something else ends up destroyed. I need to learn to stop hoping for things. It never works out."
Dorien winces. "But hope's important, just coasting through life without expectation is... It isn't good, that's all. You have to get excited about some things!"
"Why? All it brings is pain." It's not sulky or self-pitying, it sounds matter of fact. "Everything I've hoped for has turned into a nightmare. I wanted my freedom, and all I got was isolation. I wanted people to care about me, and they just turned their backs. I wanted to do something I could be proud of, and it just made people around me upset. I wanted a family..." He trails off, looking down at the mace, then sighs. "I just... wish the Light would tell me what I -should- do. Because everything I've done is WRONG...."
"It's... Why do you think it's wrong?"
"Because it wouldn't be like this if it was right," he murmurs.
"You expect you can have complete control over your life?"
"....No. I've never had any control over it." He's quiet for a bit, then adds, "I tried. I just made things worse. That's why I need to stop."
Dorien pinches the bridge of his nose. "You passed a test, out of your own choice, and it was in your control. That's not making anything worse."
"It made Anshir upset that I was doing that, though. If I'd stayed home, I could've done something and he'd still be alive... I was selfish, and now I'm paying for it."
"He didn't leave because he was upset with you, Anton. His death had nothing to do with you."
"I could still have kept him safe."
Dorien looks off to the side. "You know how people are when they really believe in something, when they really want something. They'll stop at nothing to keep a distance between them and it. I doubt..."
Anton shrugs slightly. "It doesn't matter. It's over."
"Which doesn't mean you should just give up."
"Why not? Every time I think I can't be any worse off, it happens anyway. People I care about die. Or get hurt. Or decide they don't want to have anything to do with me. I don't want that." He fiddles with the lacings on the mace's handle, "Sometimes I wish I'd died in Lordaeron. It would've saved everyone a lot of trouble."
Dorien snaps to attention at that, reaching around and making a grab for Anton's chin, trying to tilt the teen's head up so he can give him a good ol' stare down. "Don't say that."
Anton startles a little at the grab, but it's transitory; he meets Dorien's gaze without flinching. His eyes, still reddened, just look weary. "No? Why not. What good am I? The world doesn't need another damnable fel-shifter. And I don't really know anything else. I can just about run a cash register without ruining everything, and that's it."
"You're HOW old again? This is a silly age to have such a defeatist attitude! When you're my age, you can talk like that." Dorien nods, rather emphatically. "You're good enough to pass a test, something you needed to do for YOURSELF, right? You didn't do it for anyone else. It was something you had to do."
He lets go of Anton's chin, but does his best to keep ahold of the teen's eyes. "You're good. I'm sure you'll change the world in some way, for the good."
Anton scowls a little. "It wasn't that -hard-." Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't, but he apparently doesn't put a lot of stock in that one success. Though he does look down at his hands. The right bears a signet on it, engraved with the Stormwind lion. It looks somewhat worn, as if it might be some kind of heirloom. Anton rubs the lion with his thumb quietly.
His expression seems to be creeping back towards sad, though. "... I'm not a hero."
"And who is? Not everyone's a hero. Heroes usually get a lot of other people killed." Dorien shrugs. "I like my status as an archivist, it's important and not terribly fancy when it comes to clothing or prestige."
"I've...got the shop to take care of, now. I just..." He trails off quietly, then hangs his head. He looks miserable again, but doesn't say anything else. Maybe he's run out of things to say.
"A shop is a good thing to take care of," Dorien muses with a nod. "It'll keep you busy."
He nods sadly, still fiddling with his ring.
Dorien isn't exactly sure what to say now either, settling with staring off at the wall.
Uncomfortable silence is left to linger before Anton murmurs, "I'm sure you have other things to take care of. Thank you...for bringing this back..." His voice is soft, and maybe a little deadpan.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I had to do it. You needed to know," Dorien slides his arm out from around Anton, standing up slowly to fetch his satchel again. "Remember, I'm always nearby if you need to talk."
Anton nods slightly, but stays put on the couch. "I know." It's hard to say if he intends to take him up on the offer or not, though.
"I can pop by if you'd like. Bring cookies." WHO COULD SAY NO TO COOKIES.
Apparently, Anton can, because the suggestion actually makes him go a little green. "....Maybe... later," he mutters weakly.
"No, not now of course. I meant in the future."
He mumbles something vaguely, then sets the mace carefully down on the sofa before moving to the door to let Dorien out.
Dorien shuts up at this point, following behind Anton to the door. He pauses just in the threshold, looking as though he wants to say something. "... I wish you luck," he settles with.
Anton glances at him sidelong for a moment, then shrugs slightly. "I've learned not to trust in luck." Probably since he feels his is always terrible. "But....thank you, anyway," he murmurs. "Goodnight, Dorien. Light bless."
"Light be with you," Dorien nods, turning away. FEELING LIKE A TOTAL ASSHOLE, but yeah.
Anton is restless. The house has been empty of its owner for some time now, and in a slightly different and less comforting fashion than the draenei's past absences have been. Anton has by now become familiar with the vagaries of Anshir's bookkeeping tendencies, and thing seem... a little -too- neat. Too tidy. Like he wasn't planning to come back to them for a very long time, if at all.
And so, that on top of the earthquakes (and the resultant issues with things falling over at the shop), and the redhead's general steady paranoia, has left him basically pacing the length of the house, back and forth, tidying this, moving that, and muttering vaguely to himself. He should go to the shop though. Make sure nothing has broken. Again. Pace, pace, pace.
Dorien had fought in his head about how he should dress. His usual day-to-day outfit seemed a bit too low key for the news he was about to bring, but if he dressed up fancy enough, maybe Anton would suspect the worse...
He ended up settling for something in the middle, not to shiny or bland. Hopefully, hopefully... He stops in front of the door, twitching his collar back into place, more of a nervous motion than an actual need. Checking his bag for a third time, making sure the familiar weight was there, before he figures he had wasted enough time.
He knocks.
The door cracks open after some time, framed by tanned skin, freckles, and a couple of stray locks of scarlet hair. Once the knocker is identified though, the door creaks open to reveal the youth behind it.
He's actually not wearing much; a pair of dark colored silk pants and what looks like a short elven housecoat of dark green, covered in lighter green vines. It hangs open, baring his chest... and probably the fact he's been getting quite a bit of exercise lately.
His greeting is somewhat flat-sounding though, "Yes? What is it."
"Er, hey Anton," Dorien starts with, figuring since the boy's in boy's clothes, might as well use the male name. "Do you mind if I come in...?"
Anton's eyes narrow slightly, suspicious, but nods a little and lets him in. The parlor on the other side is tidy, comprised of a few large couches and a low table, the room decorated tastefully with a few Draenic artifacts, but nothing ostentatious.
Although he's been living here for months, it seems the only sign of his presence, at least in public, is a worn looking prayerbook with a red seal on the cover, lying by the lamp in the corner.
Dorien steps inside, offering the new room a quick glance, but he's not really that interested in paying attention to it. He stops, after taking a few steps into the room, and goes through his satchel, pulling out a wrapped, and heavy, object. He holds it out to Anton quietly.
He frowns, taking it. "What's this?" He shifts the package carefully in his broad hands, judging its weight, but his gaze still rests very firmly on Dorien. You, ser, had better explain yourself.
"One of Anshir's maces."
Anton's expression shuts down, somewhat, green eyes going hard. "How." It's soft, but there's a whisper of threat behind the word all the same. Perhaps not aimed at Dorien... at least not yet, but rising like something awful at the bottom of a very deep, very still lake. "Tell me."
Dorien winces. "Do you want to sit down?" He hasn't moved though, still standing as still as he was before. No sudden movements! No need to provoke!
"No." It wouldn't be so bad if he'd offer denial, or sorrow, or much of -anything- besides that cold stare. Not making any sudden moves is probably a good plan right now, though. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why he wants the details either. Someone is probably going to die.
Horribly.
Dorien runs a hand through his hair, a nervous motion as he tries to figure out what he was going to say, or how he was going to word this. Light, this is so hard... Hand still half in his hair, the redhead sighs. "Anshir... Died," he speaks quietly, with some remorse in his voice. "He died trying to fight for what he... Felt a close tie to. What he stood for."
Paper crinkles slightly as Anton's grip tightens around the weapon. "That's... so like him," he murmurs, "Were you there? Did you see that he was avenged?" He'd better have, if the youth's tone is anything to judge by.
"I was there, yes. He asked me to look after you, even after I kept urging that he should heal himself. And I promised that I would. Look after you, that is." Dorien nods slowly. "We gave him a nice burial."
Anton's eyes narrow subtly. "That's not what I asked," he murmurs. "Did you deal with those responsible? Because if you didn't, I will." A short pause, "And I don't need 'taking care of'. I'm not a child. Besides, everyone close to me -dies-, Dorien!" It's almost a snarl, though it fades quickly. "Everyone! How can I do anything but survive on my OWN..."
"It doesn't mean you have to be lonely, Anton. I can be here for you, just as Anshir was before. If you need anyone to talk to, to share anything that either makes you happy or sad, feel free to come see me. That's what I'll do. Everyone needs someone else, if at least for a little human contact!"
Anton actually glares at him now. "How DARE you say that! You pushed me -away-! You didn't WANT me. You never -cared-! And now you think that just because this happened I'd FORGET?" The cold layer over the still lake seems to have shattered abruptly, revealing a sea of hurt and anger.
He takes a step closer, grip tightening again on the weapon... and if Dory's paying any attention, it seems more like he might be about ready to swing it, rather than just hang onto it.
"You come here, telling me that Anshir is dead, and thinking you can REPLACE him? The only one who's EVER TREATED ME LIKE A FEELING PERSON?!'
"I didn't want you in the sense that you wanted me! You're a friend, I'll talk to you, listen to you! Someone to look after and care for but I really don't need to be groped in the middle of the night!" Dorien does a quick cutting motion with his hand through the air, a clear 'no'. "And I don't expect to replace Anshir! I'm just offering what I always have!"
"Don't lie to me! You avoid me! You don't want to talk to me, you think I'm some kind of a FREAK!" This time it's almost a wail. "Just like EVERYONE ELSE. Get OUT! Just GO. I don't NEED your FALSE SYMPATHY!"
Tears have welled up in the youth's eyes now, trickling down his cheeks, but he's still glaring fiercely at Dorien through them.
"I don't avoid you! You're not a freak, Anton!" He doesn't move, still standing as he was before, although his hands have curled into fists at his side. "It's not false sympathy. I do want to listen to what you want to say. If everyone else doesn't want to get to know you, it's their own damn fault for not offering you the time."
Anton seems to have resorted to hugging the wrapped weapon to his chest like some kind of security blanket, jaw tense and teeth gritted. He's plainly fighting fiercely not to just have a breakdown on the spot.
"Why should I believe you," he eventually rasps, more quietly. "People always get to know me and then stop wanting to talk to me at all. I just... I wanted you to like me, that's all. That's all I wanted. But you pushed me away and ran off. Just like everyone else does. Ex...except Mister Anshir..."
"I like you, but not like that, Anton. There's such a thing as coming on a bit too strong," Dorien sighs, pressing his hand against his forehead. "I didn't mean to run off, things... Got hectic. But I'm back in Stormwind now."
"I tried being less obvious and you ignored it!"
"But I don't..." Dorien pauses, pressing his fingers against his temple. "You're nice, Anton. You're very nice, but I don't want you like that. I'm not interested like that. Friend, I am interested in."
Anton deflates slightly, looking down at last, "You could have -said-..." The pain in his voice doesn't seem to have slacked off much, but at least he doesn't look like he's going to try and bash Dory's skull in anymore.
Instead, he just hugs the mace to his chest and stares at the carpet dully.
"... I'm pretty sure I have."
Anton doesn't really reply... in fact, he just turns and scuffs back to the sofa, flopping down on it.
"I'm sorry."
Anton silently unwraps the mace, and runs his fingers along the handle. He doesn't look up, though.
"I can't say... he was like a father," the redhead murmurs, barely audible, "Because I never really had one. But he was kind." A hand scrubs at an eye. "So kind."
"I can show you where we ended up burying him, if that'll help."
He shakes his head, "... not yet." It's a sigh.
Dorien nods. "Feel free to talk to me, to ask me where when you're ready."
Anton nods mutely, still staring at the weapon. To say he looks miserable is probably an understatement, but he seems to be trying to stuff his sorrow back in some internal box.
"... Do you want a hug?" Usually Dorien would have been doing so by now, but he isn't so sure with Anton. He stood in the same spot as before, fingers twisting.
Anton makes a noise. It might've been an attempt at a bitter laugh, but it just comes out as a generally unhappy sound. "Don't let me impose or anything," he mutters softly. "I'll...make do. I always do."
"You wouldn't be imposing," the older man shakes his head.
Anton is just quiet again for a good while, apparently losing some ground on stifling his sorrow, since it looks like he's about to cry again.
Dorien moves over, dropping his satchel along the way, to sit down beside Anton. He wraps an arm around the boy's shoulders, trying to guide the younger man to rest his head against Dorien's chest.
There's a little resistance at first, but it doesn't last. Nor, apparently, does his grip on his sorrow. Almost as soon as his head settles, Anton's shoulders shake as he starts to mourn in earnest, sobbing into Dorien's vest. Evidently there was a -lot- more involved than just Anshir letting the youth stay with him.
Dorien rubs Anton's back, hand doing easy, soothing motions. Crying's good for you, he hears. Just let it all out.
He takes a good while to wind down, eventually sagging against the older man's side, his face hidden by his long hair. He's remarkably solid, really; not large-framed at all, but definitely a long way from skinny. Who knew.
He heaves an unsteady sigh, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"Feeling a bit better?" Humour isn't probably the best idea, but sometimes it's hard to kick a habit. He pats Anton on the back one final time, keeping his hand there. He doesn't move in any other way though.
Anton shakes his head silently, though he makes no move to pull away. If anything, the ginger pat looks like it might set him off again, but he squares his jaw and sits on it.
Eventually, he murmurs, "... You don't have to stay if you don't want to. I... have..things I should probably see to. A...Anshir didn't like... loose ends left."
"If you're sure," Dorien nods, smiling down at the boy. "Feel free to come and find me though, if you need someone."
"I wouldn't want to intrude," he mumbles. "I'll... be okay. I just need some time."
"You wouldn't be intruding, and I can understand that."
Anton waves a hand vaguely before resting it on the head of the mace again. He looks totally worn down.
Dorien continues sitting, and probably won't move until Anton moves first. Always his choice. "I'm sorry," he mutters again.
Well, if he's going to leave it up to Anton, he may be there for awhile. The young rogue doesn't seem particularly inclined to move anytime soon. "It's.... just the way life is," he murmurs, miserably. "At least...mine."
"I really don't think so. Everyone's life has their rough patches, you can't expect that you're just the sink for all the 'bad stuff'." Dorien shrugs.
He makes a soft, bitter-sounding noise. "Other people, maybe, have 'patches'. My whole life has been trying to make the most of misery. For every small success, something else ends up destroyed. I need to learn to stop hoping for things. It never works out."
Dorien winces. "But hope's important, just coasting through life without expectation is... It isn't good, that's all. You have to get excited about some things!"
"Why? All it brings is pain." It's not sulky or self-pitying, it sounds matter of fact. "Everything I've hoped for has turned into a nightmare. I wanted my freedom, and all I got was isolation. I wanted people to care about me, and they just turned their backs. I wanted to do something I could be proud of, and it just made people around me upset. I wanted a family..." He trails off, looking down at the mace, then sighs. "I just... wish the Light would tell me what I -should- do. Because everything I've done is WRONG...."
"It's... Why do you think it's wrong?"
"Because it wouldn't be like this if it was right," he murmurs.
"You expect you can have complete control over your life?"
"....No. I've never had any control over it." He's quiet for a bit, then adds, "I tried. I just made things worse. That's why I need to stop."
Dorien pinches the bridge of his nose. "You passed a test, out of your own choice, and it was in your control. That's not making anything worse."
"It made Anshir upset that I was doing that, though. If I'd stayed home, I could've done something and he'd still be alive... I was selfish, and now I'm paying for it."
"He didn't leave because he was upset with you, Anton. His death had nothing to do with you."
"I could still have kept him safe."
Dorien looks off to the side. "You know how people are when they really believe in something, when they really want something. They'll stop at nothing to keep a distance between them and it. I doubt..."
Anton shrugs slightly. "It doesn't matter. It's over."
"Which doesn't mean you should just give up."
"Why not? Every time I think I can't be any worse off, it happens anyway. People I care about die. Or get hurt. Or decide they don't want to have anything to do with me. I don't want that." He fiddles with the lacings on the mace's handle, "Sometimes I wish I'd died in Lordaeron. It would've saved everyone a lot of trouble."
Dorien snaps to attention at that, reaching around and making a grab for Anton's chin, trying to tilt the teen's head up so he can give him a good ol' stare down. "Don't say that."
Anton startles a little at the grab, but it's transitory; he meets Dorien's gaze without flinching. His eyes, still reddened, just look weary. "No? Why not. What good am I? The world doesn't need another damnable fel-shifter. And I don't really know anything else. I can just about run a cash register without ruining everything, and that's it."
"You're HOW old again? This is a silly age to have such a defeatist attitude! When you're my age, you can talk like that." Dorien nods, rather emphatically. "You're good enough to pass a test, something you needed to do for YOURSELF, right? You didn't do it for anyone else. It was something you had to do."
He lets go of Anton's chin, but does his best to keep ahold of the teen's eyes. "You're good. I'm sure you'll change the world in some way, for the good."
Anton scowls a little. "It wasn't that -hard-." Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't, but he apparently doesn't put a lot of stock in that one success. Though he does look down at his hands. The right bears a signet on it, engraved with the Stormwind lion. It looks somewhat worn, as if it might be some kind of heirloom. Anton rubs the lion with his thumb quietly.
His expression seems to be creeping back towards sad, though. "... I'm not a hero."
"And who is? Not everyone's a hero. Heroes usually get a lot of other people killed." Dorien shrugs. "I like my status as an archivist, it's important and not terribly fancy when it comes to clothing or prestige."
"I've...got the shop to take care of, now. I just..." He trails off quietly, then hangs his head. He looks miserable again, but doesn't say anything else. Maybe he's run out of things to say.
"A shop is a good thing to take care of," Dorien muses with a nod. "It'll keep you busy."
He nods sadly, still fiddling with his ring.
Dorien isn't exactly sure what to say now either, settling with staring off at the wall.
Uncomfortable silence is left to linger before Anton murmurs, "I'm sure you have other things to take care of. Thank you...for bringing this back..." His voice is soft, and maybe a little deadpan.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I had to do it. You needed to know," Dorien slides his arm out from around Anton, standing up slowly to fetch his satchel again. "Remember, I'm always nearby if you need to talk."
Anton nods slightly, but stays put on the couch. "I know." It's hard to say if he intends to take him up on the offer or not, though.
"I can pop by if you'd like. Bring cookies." WHO COULD SAY NO TO COOKIES.
Apparently, Anton can, because the suggestion actually makes him go a little green. "....Maybe... later," he mutters weakly.
"No, not now of course. I meant in the future."
He mumbles something vaguely, then sets the mace carefully down on the sofa before moving to the door to let Dorien out.
Dorien shuts up at this point, following behind Anton to the door. He pauses just in the threshold, looking as though he wants to say something. "... I wish you luck," he settles with.
Anton glances at him sidelong for a moment, then shrugs slightly. "I've learned not to trust in luck." Probably since he feels his is always terrible. "But....thank you, anyway," he murmurs. "Goodnight, Dorien. Light bless."
"Light be with you," Dorien nods, turning away. FEELING LIKE A TOTAL ASSHOLE, but yeah.
