“You’ve never talked about her much,” Stephen says, musing. “Your mother, I mean. Did you know her?”
It’s occurring to him now how little he knows about this part of Ness’ life: she gushes about Candlekeep, she brightens discussing the place she came from and their traditions and their rituals. She tiptoes a little more carefully around matters of her father, even if she does still go on about him, that pedestal potentially undeserved based on what Stephen’s seen of the man. But the mother hasn’t come up at all, in the entire year-plus he’s known her.
(Which is possibly a galling realisation. Is he really so terrible at asking others about themselves? Hm. Much to consider.)
As much as Stephen isn't inclined to ask questions, Ness isn't inclined to talk about herself. Candlekeep is easy to talk about, everything about it is beautiful and wondrous and perfect to her—she's more a product of the library than either of her parents in some ways, or at least she'd like to think so.
Certainly more than her mother.
"Her name was Keya," she says, carefully even, "she was a half-elf. I don't remember much about her, but I know she was beautiful. I think she had freckles? Her hair was long, I used to braid it."
She hasn't thought about that in years. It hardly feels like a memory, more like a hazy dream: her small toddler's fingers not dextrous enough for the intricate plaits her mother preferred, leaving more tangles than braids.
"She was restless, she wanted to be an adventurer. It would be too dangerous a life for a child, so she took me to Candlekeep to leave me with Vazeiros."
Ness' breath leaves her on a shaky exhale, and her shoulders droop. Her eyes won't meet Stephen's anymore. She forces herself to shrug, disaffected, because she knows it's nothing. It's not that tragic a story, in the grand scheme of things. There's no call to feel sorry for herself.
"He didn't want me either, but I suppose she must have convinced him to keep me because she left and I stayed. We never saw her again after that."
Every time his anger at this absent drow seems like it might’ve subsided, then he hears yet another thing —
“How do you know that he didn’t want you?” Stephen asks. Stiff and clipped and precise, it has almost the cadence of one of their theoretical exercises and practices: challenging the premise. Demanding proofs.
The clipped tone visibly jars her, and Ness takes a breath, straightens her shoulders. Stephen is right, no use feeling sorry for herself. Facts are facts. She can mope and sigh all she wants, but it won't change anything.
"He said so," she says, in a tone reminiscent of the one she used to persuade him to cut off her arm. "He told my mother Candlekeep is no place for a child and that he didn't care where I went. They argued it back and forth for I don't know how long, I went to find something to read after a while."
“Well,” Stephen says, and trails off. It’s frustrating, being so pissed-off at someone who isn’t even here to be yelled at. And he’s not sure how far he can get telling her point-blank I think your dad was kind of an asshole, actually.
“It’s not like I’m the expert on children, but that’s singularly—” he starts, then stops, then frowns at her. Plainly: “You deserved better, Ennaris.”
Ennaris blinks at Stephen, struck suddenly with a very strange thought, a sense she's never had before—what a naïve thing for such a smart person to say. He thinks she doesn't know.
"Of course," plainly, patiently, "but he is my father."
She was a child. She didn't ask to be born, or to be his, or to be anything at all. The least she deserved was a parent, even just one, who wanted her. But she had Keya and Vazeiros, and so that's not what she got. Deserving is a useless abstract, pointless to waste time on.
If the calculus is cruel, that is irrelevant. It is.
He shakes his head. This is the sort of problem he can’t just carve out with a knife; can’t just string together some reassuring words to fix it all in one go, and he already wasn’t the best at those inspirational speeches.
The issue of the stump, in fact, is simpler. Even with the medical complications, the trouble healing, the infection and near-sepsis, this is at least a physical problem that Doctor Strange knows how to solve. And it’s already been cleaned out and re-dressed, this checkup long-since technically finished, but —
“It’s healing nicely,” Stephen says, a quick pivot back into safer territory, even though it’s repeating what he’s already said and what she already knows. He readjusts the trailing end of the bandage, tucking it in tighter.
“So I think we’re about done here, Ennaris.” And then, in case that feels too much like potential dismissal, he offers her a quick smile along with: “And telepathy practice at the usual time tomorrow, if you’re feeling up for it?”
Ness smiles softly, and nods—he's dismissing her, no matter how he's tried to soften the blow, but it's alright. She isn't any more sure how to have this conversation than Stephen is, and isn't ready for it anyway. Some wounds you guard like a frightened dog, even though everyone can see them regardless.
"I've hit six minutes," she tells him, proud, as she stands to leave the office. "And I think I've worked out how I might be able to affect motor function, but I haven't had any good opportunities for testing—we'll have to brainstorm."
Before she leaves, she touches her hand to his shoulder, gentle, and murmurs her thanks. And then she's off to her own office, and her own job.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It’s occurring to him now how little he knows about this part of Ness’ life: she gushes about Candlekeep, she brightens discussing the place she came from and their traditions and their rituals. She tiptoes a little more carefully around matters of her father, even if she does still go on about him, that pedestal potentially undeserved based on what Stephen’s seen of the man. But the mother hasn’t come up at all, in the entire year-plus he’s known her.
(Which is possibly a galling realisation. Is he really so terrible at asking others about themselves? Hm. Much to consider.)
no subject
Certainly more than her mother.
"Her name was Keya," she says, carefully even, "she was a half-elf. I don't remember much about her, but I know she was beautiful. I think she had freckles? Her hair was long, I used to braid it."
She hasn't thought about that in years. It hardly feels like a memory, more like a hazy dream: her small toddler's fingers not dextrous enough for the intricate plaits her mother preferred, leaving more tangles than braids.
"She was restless, she wanted to be an adventurer. It would be too dangerous a life for a child, so she took me to Candlekeep to leave me with Vazeiros."
Ness' breath leaves her on a shaky exhale, and her shoulders droop. Her eyes won't meet Stephen's anymore. She forces herself to shrug, disaffected, because she knows it's nothing. It's not that tragic a story, in the grand scheme of things. There's no call to feel sorry for herself.
"He didn't want me either, but I suppose she must have convinced him to keep me because she left and I stayed. We never saw her again after that."
no subject
“How do you know that he didn’t want you?” Stephen asks. Stiff and clipped and precise, it has almost the cadence of one of their theoretical exercises and practices: challenging the premise. Demanding proofs.
no subject
"He said so," she says, in a tone reminiscent of the one she used to persuade him to cut off her arm. "He told my mother Candlekeep is no place for a child and that he didn't care where I went. They argued it back and forth for I don't know how long, I went to find something to read after a while."
no subject
“It’s not like I’m the expert on children, but that’s singularly—” he starts, then stops, then frowns at her. Plainly: “You deserved better, Ennaris.”
no subject
Ennaris blinks at Stephen, struck suddenly with a very strange thought, a sense she's never had before—what a naïve thing for such a smart person to say. He thinks she doesn't know.
"Of course," plainly, patiently, "but he is my father."
She was a child. She didn't ask to be born, or to be his, or to be anything at all. The least she deserved was a parent, even just one, who wanted her. But she had Keya and Vazeiros, and so that's not what she got. Deserving is a useless abstract, pointless to waste time on.
If the calculus is cruel, that is irrelevant. It is.
poss yrs to wrap?
The issue of the stump, in fact, is simpler. Even with the medical complications, the trouble healing, the infection and near-sepsis, this is at least a physical problem that Doctor Strange knows how to solve. And it’s already been cleaned out and re-dressed, this checkup long-since technically finished, but —
“It’s healing nicely,” Stephen says, a quick pivot back into safer territory, even though it’s repeating what he’s already said and what she already knows. He readjusts the trailing end of the bandage, tucking it in tighter.
“So I think we’re about done here, Ennaris.” And then, in case that feels too much like potential dismissal, he offers her a quick smile along with: “And telepathy practice at the usual time tomorrow, if you’re feeling up for it?”
🎀!
"I've hit six minutes," she tells him, proud, as she stands to leave the office. "And I think I've worked out how I might be able to affect motor function, but I haven't had any good opportunities for testing—we'll have to brainstorm."
Before she leaves, she touches her hand to his shoulder, gentle, and murmurs her thanks. And then she's off to her own office, and her own job.