He doesn't need to understand it. Not the depth and nuance of it, anyway. What matters is that he feels it. Feels it as deeply as he feels all those powerful emotions that rule his heart. Feelings that have made him spurn fate and gods and all else his bloodline has ever stood for. Feelings he has simply called love, and left it at that. He knows this pledge isn't a light thing, it's not something he gives without all of himself behind it. Ravus has never done a damn thing by half-measures, and there in the soft hearth-light, more sure of his feelings than he's known in a great, long while, he's not about to change that. He's just glad Ignis seems to understand.
No one can replace Lunafreya. As no one could replace the sun in his sky, or the earth beneath his feet. But he's not looking to. The world won't ever be the same for Ravus, but he's slowly coming to accept that it doesn't mean he can't love everything Lunafreya left behind. That there are people still worth fighting for, and beside. That those people will give him purpose. They will hold his hand in the dark of night, comforted by the glow of flames, and speak of precious treasures over tea at odd hours of the evening.
For all the stress of the day, Ravus finds himself at peace.
"Thank you," he says quietly above the curls of steam. It seems appropriate. Not everyone might find the intensity of a pledge from the very soul of a knight so worth treasuring quite as readily. Thankfully, Ignis inhabits himself. He must be used to intensity by now.
When Ignis mentions family, Ravus regards him with a curious, if somber, look. The kettle is set aside in favor of putting his focus back on Ignis. It's not something he thought would be unburdened from him, sure he'd simply carry the unknowable what ifs of the uncounted dead in Insomnia after the attack. No matter his subtle efforts to be much less the tyrant of his predecessor, there'd be no true and proper justice he could give. It's not an undue burden; Ravus doesn't think so, anyway. But he'll take the relief all the same, and nods.
"Aren't I meant to be consoling you?" Ravus murmurs, his voice on the very edge of something softer. Not quite teasing, but leaning into the irony of the situation. "Still," he goes on, "thank you for telling me. It is something I let weigh on me, as I let many things." The whole world, namely. But that's not the point.
"I'm full glad he did not have to see that carnage. I hope whatever prevented it was far more peaceful. Be him far away from the city, or gone before its destruction." Ravus carefully drains the sieves to set them aside with the kettle. He nudges Ignis' cup towards him with the backs of his metal claws.
"Lavender and chamomile, to ease a restless mind like yours. Ashwagandha root, in the hopes if those fail, it may guide the racing thoughts to at least slow or provide clarity, rather than anxiety. And rose hips for your health. I knew the bite of the salt-winds and rain that day would do nearly as much damage to our bodies as fighting our way across the city."
no subject
No one can replace Lunafreya. As no one could replace the sun in his sky, or the earth beneath his feet. But he's not looking to. The world won't ever be the same for Ravus, but he's slowly coming to accept that it doesn't mean he can't love everything Lunafreya left behind. That there are people still worth fighting for, and beside. That those people will give him purpose. They will hold his hand in the dark of night, comforted by the glow of flames, and speak of precious treasures over tea at odd hours of the evening.
For all the stress of the day, Ravus finds himself at peace.
"Thank you," he says quietly above the curls of steam. It seems appropriate. Not everyone might find the intensity of a pledge from the very soul of a knight so worth treasuring quite as readily. Thankfully, Ignis inhabits himself. He must be used to intensity by now.
When Ignis mentions family, Ravus regards him with a curious, if somber, look. The kettle is set aside in favor of putting his focus back on Ignis. It's not something he thought would be unburdened from him, sure he'd simply carry the unknowable what ifs of the uncounted dead in Insomnia after the attack. No matter his subtle efforts to be much less the tyrant of his predecessor, there'd be no true and proper justice he could give. It's not an undue burden; Ravus doesn't think so, anyway. But he'll take the relief all the same, and nods.
"Aren't I meant to be consoling you?" Ravus murmurs, his voice on the very edge of something softer. Not quite teasing, but leaning into the irony of the situation. "Still," he goes on, "thank you for telling me. It is something I let weigh on me, as I let many things." The whole world, namely. But that's not the point.
"I'm full glad he did not have to see that carnage. I hope whatever prevented it was far more peaceful. Be him far away from the city, or gone before its destruction." Ravus carefully drains the sieves to set them aside with the kettle. He nudges Ignis' cup towards him with the backs of his metal claws.
"Lavender and chamomile, to ease a restless mind like yours. Ashwagandha root, in the hopes if those fail, it may guide the racing thoughts to at least slow or provide clarity, rather than anxiety. And rose hips for your health. I knew the bite of the salt-winds and rain that day would do nearly as much damage to our bodies as fighting our way across the city."