It takes Foster a few seconds to really process Taako's excuse. And when he does--it hurts. It hurts, it hollows him out, leaves him empty and aching and desperate for the ability to sob, to break down and wail, cries ripped from the gut, the heart, even if it's into an empty trailer, an uncaring void.
But he can't even do that; whatever 'feeling' he can experience is locked on the other side of that black glass, and his own wish to feel, to express what will destroy him from inside simply slides off the sheer pane.
On a basic level, it's simply that Taako's excuse is so... selfish. It's only natural, of course; had Taako had any other excuse, he would have hated the elf immensely for even trying to justify his inaction. But he has not, cannot remember ever having hurt as deeply, ever having needed so deeply, ever having felt as deeply as he did there at the ritual site, and he has, in every sense of the word, suffered for his entire life.
And that's what pierces him now, the barbed truth ripping through his stomach and leaving his intestines, his visceral organs in bloody tatters. How much more does he need to hurt before the universe sees him, before his pain is worth acknowledging? At what level of agony will fate notice and finally grant him mercy?
How much more pain does he need? How much blood, how much anguish, how much--!
"No." It hits Foster with the force of a diagnosis: the realisation that Taako doesn't understand anything. The dizzying exultation of blood shed from an empty body, the insatiable hunger for death and life and relief, the endless craving for that milky oblivion.
The cruelty of a meagre death offered far too late.
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But he can't even do that; whatever 'feeling' he can experience is locked on the other side of that black glass, and his own wish to feel, to express what will destroy him from inside simply slides off the sheer pane.
On a basic level, it's simply that Taako's excuse is so... selfish. It's only natural, of course; had Taako had any other excuse, he would have hated the elf immensely for even trying to justify his inaction. But he has not, cannot remember ever having hurt as deeply, ever having needed so deeply, ever having felt as deeply as he did there at the ritual site, and he has, in every sense of the word, suffered for his entire life.
And that's what pierces him now, the barbed truth ripping through his stomach and leaving his intestines, his visceral organs in bloody tatters. How much more does he need to hurt before the universe sees him, before his pain is worth acknowledging? At what level of agony will fate notice and finally grant him mercy?
How much more pain does he need? How much blood, how much anguish, how much--!
"No." It hits Foster with the force of a diagnosis: the realisation that Taako doesn't understand anything. The dizzying exultation of blood shed from an empty body, the insatiable hunger for death and life and relief, the endless craving for that milky oblivion.
The cruelty of a meagre death offered far too late.
"No, you won't."