She's angry, and he really doesn't know what he's done, except be.
Here, so she knows that he's accused of something, he supposes, but even
that's not particularly obvious. Is her hatred for magic-users, for her own
kind, so intense that it doesn't even matter who he is? It could be.
He's hit by a stream of emotion so intense and bitter that at first he
doesn't know where it comes from; an overload that seems like they've
bubbled up from within, many-colored and overwhelming. Then it sorts, along
with the shift of energy, and he realizes it's not resentment he's created
for himself, but directly from her. They're a language. Psychic evocation.
The power's not only intense, but specific. Disgust, not just in general
but aimed at a specific action.
His first, instinctive feeling is protest, and then resignation as he files
her into the category of people he can't trust. He doesn't think he's
better than anyone. His mother was human, and he holds his memories of her
with more reverence than he does some deities. But those who hate and fear
real magic are the majority and they wield it like a knife. They mask the
history of magic in fairy tales and legends. For centuries they've
repressed and shamed and outlawed what used to be natural. He thinks that
he should be able to do what he can do, be who he is publicly, like anyone
else, if it's not hurting someone. Instead he lives in a place where guns
are normal and levitating a book or coaxing life from a plant is suspect.
He doesn't know how much she can feel, if she can feel anything from him,
whether she can read his mind entirely or not, but once Auryn's started on
this point it's hard to get him to stop. His emotions feel raw, tangled too
much with memory in this awful room, and he tries to protect them even as
they won't go away. Anger and pain, loss and justification, the
overwhelming willingness to give all he has to be free. All he has is his
magic. He doesn't expect anything else to stay.
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Date: 2015-06-19 12:07 am (UTC)She's angry, and he really doesn't know what he's done, except be. Here, so she knows that he's accused of something, he supposes, but even that's not particularly obvious. Is her hatred for magic-users, for her own kind, so intense that it doesn't even matter who he is? It could be.
He's hit by a stream of emotion so intense and bitter that at first he doesn't know where it comes from; an overload that seems like they've bubbled up from within, many-colored and overwhelming. Then it sorts, along with the shift of energy, and he realizes it's not resentment he's created for himself, but directly from her. They're a language. Psychic evocation. The power's not only intense, but specific. Disgust, not just in general but aimed at a specific action.
His first, instinctive feeling is protest, and then resignation as he files her into the category of people he can't trust. He doesn't think he's better than anyone. His mother was human, and he holds his memories of her with more reverence than he does some deities. But those who hate and fear real magic are the majority and they wield it like a knife. They mask the history of magic in fairy tales and legends. For centuries they've repressed and shamed and outlawed what used to be natural. He thinks that he should be able to do what he can do, be who he is publicly, like anyone else, if it's not hurting someone. Instead he lives in a place where guns are normal and levitating a book or coaxing life from a plant is suspect.
He doesn't know how much she can feel, if she can feel anything from him, whether she can read his mind entirely or not, but once Auryn's started on this point it's hard to get him to stop. His emotions feel raw, tangled too much with memory in this awful room, and he tries to protect them even as they won't go away. Anger and pain, loss and justification, the overwhelming willingness to give all he has to be free. All he has is his magic. He doesn't expect anything else to stay.