Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. Robin is displaying such anger and defensiveness he should feel, faulty as their connection is. And yet he doesn't...only hints of feelings, as if muffled beneath a thick blanket of cold snow. Arts? But the way she speaks of becoming...a god....it brings to mind the sparse information he's gotten from the little Sui Regulator at Rhodes, once.
This is not a good thing to draw connections to.
"....it is not a sin to want to survive, Signora. To question. It is not an imperfection." Maybe a couple years ago he wouldn't have even considered such a thing. But His Holiness encouraged questions. An order, but not. And as hard as further understanding has made his work, he doesn't feel it is....bad. That Robin speaks of her individuality, her life as something to shed in persuit of perfection. It doesn't...sit right with him.
That unease compounds when the piercing magenta of her eye turns to him. It's wrong. Something is wrong. His eyes narrow.
"The will was indeed entrusted to me, and as an Executor and his friend, I will carry it out to its fullness." Even the insinuation of her taking it from him makes his wings flare, sharp obsidian edges glinting in the low light. That sharpness transfers into his next words.
"You are not well, Signora Robin. You need rest. I will execute the will; I do not require your assistance. After all, your name is not even in it. You have no power in this situation." So would the Law dictate. No they're not in Laterano. But it's all he knows, and all his overly tired mind can cling to.
no subject
This is not a good thing to draw connections to.
"....it is not a sin to want to survive, Signora. To question. It is not an imperfection." Maybe a couple years ago he wouldn't have even considered such a thing. But His Holiness encouraged questions. An order, but not. And as hard as further understanding has made his work, he doesn't feel it is....bad. That Robin speaks of her individuality, her life as something to shed in persuit of perfection. It doesn't...sit right with him.
That unease compounds when the piercing magenta of her eye turns to him. It's wrong. Something is wrong. His eyes narrow.
"The will was indeed entrusted to me, and as an Executor and his friend, I will carry it out to its fullness." Even the insinuation of her taking it from him makes his wings flare, sharp obsidian edges glinting in the low light. That sharpness transfers into his next words.
"You are not well, Signora Robin. You need rest. I will execute the will; I do not require your assistance. After all, your name is not even in it. You have no power in this situation." So would the Law dictate. No they're not in Laterano. But it's all he knows, and all his overly tired mind can cling to.