[ leaning over on an elbow, voice mild ] Don't be a coward about it.
[ not really a criticizing tone; just sharing some helpful suggestions! ]
...As for the rest...
It seems as though... at the time, you were very confident that she was just like you. And you were entirely confident in yourself. Based on how things turned out, you were right about just one of those two.
"...I suppose I never took those warnings about how pride goeth before the fall seriously enough."
She shakes her head. "I had... a lot of confidence in those who I taught. But for so many—either I disappointed them, or they disappointed me, in the end. I don't... understand the person I became, all the time, looking back on my memories."
....It is a strange feeling, finding myself for the first time grateful to this place, which has let me see my son again, even though... I am, myself, dead. I suppose it could truly give back my daughters as well, were I only willing to abandon my every principle.
It's telegraphed enough, at least, that it doesn't seem to startle her or cause her discomfort; maybe it's just that it opens up the door to a different kind of suppressed pain, because she squeezes her eyes shut and presses her mouth into a tight line.
"I never had any children of my own blood, but—I thought of her as such. I didn't want to outlive her. I shouldn't have had to."
Another injustice to fight against, perhaps, but not the kind that there is any true sweetness of victory in righting. We that have lost like that... fight for an ideal, and not our own happiness.
[ not withdrawing her hand just yet, though her grip has loosened to be a thumb brushed light over Hope's knuckles ]
....Have you given thought to what she might want for the world? —your daughter, I mean. I get the impression this is someone different than Paula.
"Her name was Iris," she says, briefly, quietly. "Or—rather, she was born with a different name, but if I knew it, I don't remember what it was."
She tilts her head sideways and away a little bit, gazing into the shelves upon shelves of books. "What she might want for the world—for years we fought together for justice and peace and kindness upon the earth, and it wrung her out and bled her dry, for all the love she had for everyone around her. She wanted to do one last thing for someone she considered family, and it burdened her with too much grief to bear. I don't know, anymore."
......She truly does sound like my son. Lucifel, especially.
[ at last retrieving her hand—because she has a deep need, now, to press both against her temples ]
Would she have wished for a different life, do you think?
[ she leans back, tilting her chin to stare up at nothing in particular. it is not a rhetorical question. ]
Or...would she always have chosen that path? If we had turned them away from a noble-minded child's first bit of self-sacrifice... would that have been right?
The Professor hunches her shoulders just slightly. "I suppose... someone recently told me that even though I had choices in how I went forward in my own life, the way I was... wronged, meant the choice was made for me. The only thing that felt bearable to do."
She presses her mouth into a thin line. "The same, I suppose, is true of her, although the nature of the trauma was different. And the world was not good to children like her, when she was growing up."
I don't know much of your history. [ a glance at the doorway to the rest of the library ] —Haven't done my research yet, I suppose.
I can't say it sits quite right with me, though, to say that something like past suffering could truly take away your choice. If the path you chose was to turn towards that fight, rather than safety and ease... it was still a choice. That you felt so much conviction in it says something about your character, not your agency. And the same with her.
....I don't know if I mean that as comfort or not.
"Rather—it was a choice, but the only truly good one I felt like I could make, I suppose. But you're right, that... that doesn't make it any less about conviction. Not for me, not for her."
She crooks a tiny bit of a smile. "That kind of thing—does come across as comfort to me, at least. I can't say for anyone else, since I'm somewhat hit-or-miss about that."
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Re: SPEAK TO THE PROFESSOR
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[ not really a criticizing tone; just sharing some helpful suggestions! ]
...As for the rest...
It seems as though... at the time, you were very confident that she was just like you. And you were entirely confident in yourself.
Based on how things turned out, you were right about just one of those two.
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She shakes her head. "I had... a lot of confidence in those who I taught. But for so many—either I disappointed them, or they disappointed me, in the end. I don't... understand the person I became, all the time, looking back on my memories."
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[ pausing a breath, the slightest catch in her voice ] —just exactly the person you wanted her to be... that you failed her so entirely.
[ ah shit she just spilled her own moral injury analysis all over her own lap. fuck. ]
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Pause.
"Is this catching?"
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[ bemused again, which at least knocks her out of ruminating ]
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....Well, I regret to inform you that my guilt over my failures as a parent well predates this conversation.
[ a pause; then, wry ] To me, at least, you owe no accounting.
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When you want to give someone absolutely everything.... perhaps it is no wonder we fall short.
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Horrible. Why are Persephone and Iris the same person.
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[ Honestly! Oppression of mothers. Jail for "children who we let become nuns for some reason." ]
Gods, but it's true. And in this I can offer you no advice. In fact, if you learn the secret, please, by all means, share it with me.
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A pause. Subdued:
"...well. I don't think I'll ever find the answer to that one."
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...What do you mean?
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She shifts in her seat, a little uncomfortably.
"She passed away, it seems."
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[ that one also hits close to home. ]
....It is a strange feeling, finding myself for the first time grateful to this place, which has let me see my son again, even though... I am, myself, dead. I suppose it could truly give back my daughters as well, were I only willing to abandon my every principle.
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Pause.
"Furthermore, from the way she died, she wouldn't want to come back. If it's... what she chose, then—I have no right to change that."
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Then she reaches across the table to lay one hand over Hope's. Maybe that is still too much touch; if not, she gives Hope's hand a gentle squeeze. ]
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It's telegraphed enough, at least, that it doesn't seem to startle her or cause her discomfort; maybe it's just that it opens up the door to a different kind of suppressed pain, because she squeezes her eyes shut and presses her mouth into a tight line.
"I never had any children of my own blood, but—I thought of her as such. I didn't want to outlive her. I shouldn't have had to."
Re: SPEAK TO THE PROFESSOR
Another injustice to fight against, perhaps, but not the kind that there is any true sweetness of victory in righting. We that have lost like that... fight for an ideal, and not our own happiness.
[ not withdrawing her hand just yet, though her grip has loosened to be a thumb brushed light over Hope's knuckles ]
....Have you given thought to what she might want for the world? —your daughter, I mean. I get the impression this is someone different than Paula.
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She tilts her head sideways and away a little bit, gazing into the shelves upon shelves of books. "What she might want for the world—for years we fought together for justice and peace and kindness upon the earth, and it wrung her out and bled her dry, for all the love she had for everyone around her. She wanted to do one last thing for someone she considered family, and it burdened her with too much grief to bear. I don't know, anymore."
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[ at last retrieving her hand—because she has a deep need, now, to press both against her temples ]
Would she have wished for a different life, do you think?
[ she leans back, tilting her chin to stare up at nothing in particular.
it is not a rhetorical question. ]
Or...would she always have chosen that path? If we had turned them away from a noble-minded child's first bit of self-sacrifice... would that have been right?
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The Professor hunches her shoulders just slightly. "I suppose... someone recently told me that even though I had choices in how I went forward in my own life, the way I was... wronged, meant the choice was made for me. The only thing that felt bearable to do."
She presses her mouth into a thin line. "The same, I suppose, is true of her, although the nature of the trauma was different. And the world was not good to children like her, when she was growing up."
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[ a glance at the doorway to the rest of the library ] —Haven't done my research yet, I suppose.
I can't say it sits quite right with me, though, to say that something like past suffering could truly take away your choice. If the path you chose was to turn towards that fight, rather than safety and ease... it was still a choice. That you felt so much conviction in it says something about your character, not your agency. And the same with her.
....I don't know if I mean that as comfort or not.
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She crooks a tiny bit of a smile. "That kind of thing—does come across as comfort to me, at least. I can't say for anyone else, since I'm somewhat hit-or-miss about that."
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