Mayerling kisses the top of Sharon's head, feeling warm and known and loved, when Sharon, like so many people, would rather harm others than those she loves. Than him. Her Otherworld is perfectly suited for the task, a place where he's isolated from everyone and cannot bite anyone (save Sharon, though he knows first hand that he will be busily occupied by his own demons and not an immediate threat to her). It's a blessing, a relief, even as it burdens her further because her power would torment him. Only because they love each other so much, because Sharon truly cares for him and what he wants, will she do it. Mayerling wishes he need not burden her, yet there's no other he trusts more to handle the issue in Folkmore.
He lets her go, though he wants to offer her comfort the way she gave it to him, because Sharon fears rejection and his turning away from her. Easier, it likely seems, if he cannot remove himself from her touch in recoil and horror at whatever she might say. Easier to turn away and not meet his eye. Easier— whatever makes it easier for her to share, though Mayerling doubts it truly makes much of a difference. Instead, he admires her bravery in sharing it willingly despite the difficulty and listens carefully and, as best he can, without judgment—without immediate judgment.
His stomach turns at the plain statement of fact, not only of what Sharon did but what was done to her. Burned alive. She's yet so young, even now, but to have lived through that? He knows the pain well, for he has burned alive many a time. He could burn alive if he simply stepped foot outside their door without his wings protecting him. The thought of that happening to children, not for their own foolhardiness and desire to see a butterfly, pains him terribly, yet Mayerling cannot claim it be the first time he has heard of terrible deeds done to children, nor even such done by the hand of someone he loves. The pain flashes through him as raw as ever, yet he's used to feeling such pain. He doesn't recoil but watches her.
Mayerling ponders what Sharon says and the way she says it, yet he senses what pleases her is not the harm to the children but the harm to their parents—the harm to the people who hurt her. That certainly eases the sense around it all, yet Sharon's correct that it isn't something he simply accepts without second thought, that he ignores because he loves her, that can be any more or less accepted in her than in someone he does not know.
When he ponders the words, the last sentence makes his brows furrow. "You separate yourself from your own trauma when you speak of it," Mayerling notes, "Those adults not only put Dahlia through something, they put you through it. They burned you. They hurt you. Did you not want revenge for yourself, for your own sake?" He reaches for her hand as he considers an answer. "Did you not value yourself, your pain, your own experience and see it worthy of vengeance, of punishment, of justice? You are as worth protecting and meting out punishment for as her. Even in this dark, terrible moment, you cared about another. Love motivated you as strongly as hate.
"I cannot be glad that it happened, for children are children, whatever the sins of their fathers and mothers, yet I can understand." As much as it saddens him that he understands, he does.
cw; talk of child murder
He lets her go, though he wants to offer her comfort the way she gave it to him, because Sharon fears rejection and his turning away from her. Easier, it likely seems, if he cannot remove himself from her touch in recoil and horror at whatever she might say. Easier to turn away and not meet his eye. Easier— whatever makes it easier for her to share, though Mayerling doubts it truly makes much of a difference. Instead, he admires her bravery in sharing it willingly despite the difficulty and listens carefully and, as best he can, without judgment—without immediate judgment.
His stomach turns at the plain statement of fact, not only of what Sharon did but what was done to her. Burned alive. She's yet so young, even now, but to have lived through that? He knows the pain well, for he has burned alive many a time. He could burn alive if he simply stepped foot outside their door without his wings protecting him. The thought of that happening to children, not for their own foolhardiness and desire to see a butterfly, pains him terribly, yet Mayerling cannot claim it be the first time he has heard of terrible deeds done to children, nor even such done by the hand of someone he loves. The pain flashes through him as raw as ever, yet he's used to feeling such pain. He doesn't recoil but watches her.
Mayerling ponders what Sharon says and the way she says it, yet he senses what pleases her is not the harm to the children but the harm to their parents—the harm to the people who hurt her. That certainly eases the sense around it all, yet Sharon's correct that it isn't something he simply accepts without second thought, that he ignores because he loves her, that can be any more or less accepted in her than in someone he does not know.
When he ponders the words, the last sentence makes his brows furrow. "You separate yourself from your own trauma when you speak of it," Mayerling notes, "Those adults not only put Dahlia through something, they put you through it. They burned you. They hurt you. Did you not want revenge for yourself, for your own sake?" He reaches for her hand as he considers an answer. "Did you not value yourself, your pain, your own experience and see it worthy of vengeance, of punishment, of justice? You are as worth protecting and meting out punishment for as her. Even in this dark, terrible moment, you cared about another. Love motivated you as strongly as hate.
"I cannot be glad that it happened, for children are children, whatever the sins of their fathers and mothers, yet I can understand." As much as it saddens him that he understands, he does.