There is an element of her grief that is utterly foreign to him. (Is it? Did he not dream of a child, a son, is it so far removed—) But Petra is so very precise in her explanation; it is not difficult for John to understand her exact meaning.
"You think she will expect the version of you from the painting."
A fair concern. John knows something of it, to be painted into a role and then trapped there.
"Here," is quieter, unnecessary as Emlyn's place comes into view. They have hold of each other. When he shifts, Petra comes along with him.
A brief consideration: Emlyn's place is not so rough as others in Kirkwall, but it is rough and the floor is sticky in spots and the tables are all some manner of rickety. It is a foregone conclusion that they will ascend the stairs, to the more tolerable and less crowded balcony.
Upon the balcony, as they find their seats, Petra says — softer, wearier, “I cannot know the version of me she expects. I would not have credited the way that my husband appears to have remembered me, the...it is not what I expected, and I do not know what it means. My mother was her lady governess, and I know well what she will have said of me.”
Different things, by her tone.
“Her feelings were far less ambiguous. And the way in which I — I know that it would have been impolitic for my husband to shame me for a traitor in public. He need not remember me warmly to our daughter simply to protect his reputation.”
All in all: there are a lot of possibilities, but probably none of them resemble the tired, frustrated woman sitting opposite John Silver now.
John's hand comes to rest on the scored wood of the table, palm up and fingers loose in silent invitation to her as he considers the disparate, warped images Petrana is implying.
"Do you think she'll be unable to accept the truth of you?"
Stories are a powerful thing. A man can be fashioned from nothing but secondhand accounts. (John would know. John wears Billy Bones' words, knit them into the truth of himself.) But the heart of the thing—
The person Petra was, who John had the privilege of knowing, would not square with what her daughter would expect. That is the difficulty.
“I worry it will not be welcome,” she says, picking her way through it with great care. “That she may have no desire to know — that I may be burdensome to her, as memory, and unwelcome in fact. And if not, then...”
Yes, she wonders.
“He had time with her, John. Time I did not. What am I to tell her? I had never even considered that he might have regretted my death, before the painting. I have always ... he killed me, and he raised her.”
Even if he had not meant to, she thinks it is still true. That she wrestles now with whether or not he had meant to doesn't undo that.
Fuck him catches behind John's teeth, suppressed even though the flash of it shows briefly on his face. Instead—
"You have time now," is a quiet offering, as John's hand turns over on the table, bracing him as he leans in by degrees. "I don't know your daughter, but I can't imagine she would want to cast the opportunity to better know you aside."
Maybe some aspect of this is colored by John finding the idea of Petrana being unwelcome laughable. It still feels accurate. What child wouldn't have some curiosity about a parent long since lost to them?
"Tell her what she asks, to start," he advises, quieter. "There'll be room for the rest after."
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no subject
"You think she will expect the version of you from the painting."
A fair concern. John knows something of it, to be painted into a role and then trapped there.
"Here," is quieter, unnecessary as Emlyn's place comes into view. They have hold of each other. When he shifts, Petra comes along with him.
A brief consideration: Emlyn's place is not so rough as others in Kirkwall, but it is rough and the floor is sticky in spots and the tables are all some manner of rickety. It is a foregone conclusion that they will ascend the stairs, to the more tolerable and less crowded balcony.
no subject
Different things, by her tone.
“Her feelings were far less ambiguous. And the way in which I — I know that it would have been impolitic for my husband to shame me for a traitor in public. He need not remember me warmly to our daughter simply to protect his reputation.”
All in all: there are a lot of possibilities, but probably none of them resemble the tired, frustrated woman sitting opposite John Silver now.
no subject
"Do you think she'll be unable to accept the truth of you?"
Stories are a powerful thing. A man can be fashioned from nothing but secondhand accounts. (John would know. John wears Billy Bones' words, knit them into the truth of himself.) But the heart of the thing—
The person Petra was, who John had the privilege of knowing, would not square with what her daughter would expect. That is the difficulty.
no subject
Yes, she wonders.
“He had time with her, John. Time I did not. What am I to tell her? I had never even considered that he might have regretted my death, before the painting. I have always ... he killed me, and he raised her.”
Even if he had not meant to, she thinks it is still true. That she wrestles now with whether or not he had meant to doesn't undo that.
no subject
"You have time now," is a quiet offering, as John's hand turns over on the table, bracing him as he leans in by degrees. "I don't know your daughter, but I can't imagine she would want to cast the opportunity to better know you aside."
Maybe some aspect of this is colored by John finding the idea of Petrana being unwelcome laughable. It still feels accurate. What child wouldn't have some curiosity about a parent long since lost to them?
"Tell her what she asks, to start," he advises, quieter. "There'll be room for the rest after."