“Does he think that?” Lambert asks, looking up at Strange. He’s entirely oblivious to the magician’s train of thought, preoccupied by his own ruminations, which are mostly along the lines of ‘how did we get here yet again’ and how the Carnival seems like a great big circle of people trying to non-consensually protect each other like fucking morons. “Did you ever ask him if he wanted your protection? Or is that something you decided he needed, too?”
Because that’s funny, since he started out protecting the Carnival from him. The hysteria isn’t a good sign, but Lambert’s not sure what’s going on with that, so he’ll press on.
“That wasn’t about Ignatius. I asked you because I thought you’d understand what it felt like to want that,” he says. “To be more scared of ... of doing something you might regret later than you were of dying. It was selfish, and I should have known better. You apologized for asking the same thing before, and I should have remembered it felt like shit.” He snorts, quietly. “The rest of it ... if you asking you to do things is using you, then I’m sorry. I’ll stop asking.”
He honestly doesn’t know what to say besides that. He starts to gather up his swords and kit. He doesn’t have shadows or a mirror to fall through, unfortunately, so any exit will have to be a slow one. He’s not nearly drunk enough for this much emotional honesty in a conversation and he’s not sure how much of what he said is just passing through one ear and out the other. It’s been a stressful time. Maybe conversations like this should have waited until they were somewhere safer, when they were more well rested, but Lambert doesn’t know anything.
no subject
Because that’s funny, since he started out protecting the Carnival from him. The hysteria isn’t a good sign, but Lambert’s not sure what’s going on with that, so he’ll press on.
“That wasn’t about Ignatius. I asked you because I thought you’d understand what it felt like to want that,” he says. “To be more scared of ... of doing something you might regret later than you were of dying. It was selfish, and I should have known better. You apologized for asking the same thing before, and I should have remembered it felt like shit.” He snorts, quietly. “The rest of it ... if you asking you to do things is using you, then I’m sorry. I’ll stop asking.”
He honestly doesn’t know what to say besides that. He starts to gather up his swords and kit. He doesn’t have shadows or a mirror to fall through, unfortunately, so any exit will have to be a slow one. He’s not nearly drunk enough for this much emotional honesty in a conversation and he’s not sure how much of what he said is just passing through one ear and out the other. It’s been a stressful time. Maybe conversations like this should have waited until they were somewhere safer, when they were more well rested, but Lambert doesn’t know anything.