That was very clearly not where Ness saw this going; she blinks at Stephen, attempting to adjust for this new trajectoryβ
"Well," slowly. She's never known how to respond to comments like thisβStephen's not the first to be bemused by the differences between her and her father, and she's never come up with what seems like an appropriate answer. "We're not entirely unalike. I get my love of books from him, and I also find the pursuit of power to be more trouble than it's worth. I have his cheekbones."
It's not a lot to have in common with one's father, but it's all Ness can think of. And it isβin a way, it's one of the only ways he was kind to her. He didn't try to shave off the parts of her that were not like him, didn't try to mold her to his own image. She was allowed to be herself, even as he found her needy and tiresome and naΓ―ve, and there were no lessons aimed to change her. She was as she was; he just didn't like her all that much.
"Perhaps he would have been more like me if he had been born outside Menzoberranzan," she reasons, "or perhaps I take more after my mother. I couldn't say, really."
βYouβve never talked about her much,β Stephen says, musing. βYour mother, I mean. Did you know her?β
Itβs occurring to him now how little he knows about this part of Nessβ 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 Stephenβs seen of the man. But the mother hasnβt come up at all, in the entire year-plus heβs 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 herβshe'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 mightβve subsided, then he hears yet another thing —
βHow do you know that he didnβt want you?β 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."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
That was very clearly not where Ness saw this going; she blinks at Stephen, attempting to adjust for this new trajectoryβ
"Well," slowly. She's never known how to respond to comments like thisβStephen's not the first to be bemused by the differences between her and her father, and she's never come up with what seems like an appropriate answer. "We're not entirely unalike. I get my love of books from him, and I also find the pursuit of power to be more trouble than it's worth. I have his cheekbones."
It's not a lot to have in common with one's father, but it's all Ness can think of. And it isβin a way, it's one of the only ways he was kind to her. He didn't try to shave off the parts of her that were not like him, didn't try to mold her to his own image. She was allowed to be herself, even as he found her needy and tiresome and naΓ―ve, and there were no lessons aimed to change her. She was as she was; he just didn't like her all that much.
"Perhaps he would have been more like me if he had been born outside Menzoberranzan," she reasons, "or perhaps I take more after my mother. I couldn't say, really."
no subject
Itβs occurring to him now how little he knows about this part of Nessβ 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 Stephenβs seen of the man. But the mother hasnβt come up at all, in the entire year-plus heβs 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
βHow do you know that he didnβt want you?β 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."