[ he doesn't stop him - just kind of stands there, frozen to the spot, still white knuckling his sword.
it doesn't look like he has any glass on his hands - his greatsword is a twohander, and he was far from the spot of impact, and his gaze finally lifts from the floor to look at him, just a maelstrom of emotions. fury. grief. fury, all over again. something lost. there are tears falling from his eyes, down his cheeks, straight down to the ground below, but it's hard to tell if he even realizes. ]
[ he doesn't say anything, but he doesn't resist it - rupert can feel his arm shaking, the tense muscles in every winding cord. he can guide him to sit, if he wants. ]
[ half snarled, but at least it's not like. at rupert.
the answer is no, he has no idea what he needs. he needs vi to be alive. he needs anders to be alive. he needs to stop being such a fucking failure. none of those things seem to be in the cards anytime soon. ]
[ all he does to that is scoff, which is not the reaction that sweet and wonderful rupert deserves. because it is his fault. what sort of a noble can't protect his own?
his tattoo, that ugly black ink mess, curls over his shoulder again. Broke his promise. ]
.... eventually, after a long moment, he - shakes his head. no. no, he doesn't. his foot jitters a little where he's sitting, the gesture just to shake energy free, and he rubs a hand over his face.
and after a longer pause, says, gruff, miserably: ] Sorry.
[ he shouldn't yell, is the thing. the hand on his face remains - fat, hot tears drip through his fingers, down his cheeks. frustration and exhaustion. ]
[he knows, but it doesn't seem too important to say that right now - instead, he looks towards the tears for another moment before shifting to put his arms around him. get hugged idiot!!!!]
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...Let me see your hands?
[to make sure they aren't hurt, after that strike.]
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it doesn't look like he has any glass on his hands - his greatsword is a twohander, and he was far from the spot of impact, and his gaze finally lifts from the floor to look at him, just a maelstrom of emotions. fury. grief. fury, all over again. something lost. there are tears falling from his eyes, down his cheeks, straight down to the ground below, but it's hard to tell if he even realizes. ]
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[gently, again - because he's unharmed but also deeply not unharmed. at the very least, he moves to put a hand on his arm.]
Sit with me?
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...I got you. Do you know what you need?
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[ half snarled, but at least it's not like. at rupert.
the answer is no, he has no idea what he needs. he needs vi to be alive. he needs anders to be alive. he needs to stop being such a fucking failure. none of those things seem to be in the cards anytime soon. ]
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[hesitating for another moment, because there's not really anything he can say to make this better and he knows that, but at the very least:]
This wasn't your fault. Neither of them would think that.
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his tattoo, that ugly black ink mess, curls over his shoulder again. Broke his promise. ]
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Sorry, I - do you want space?
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.... eventually, after a long moment, he - shakes his head. no. no, he doesn't. his foot jitters a little where he's sitting, the gesture just to shake energy free, and he rubs a hand over his face.
and after a longer pause, says, gruff, miserably: ] Sorry.
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[sincerely!!]
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[ he shouldn't yell, is the thing. the hand on his face remains - fat, hot tears drip through his fingers, down his cheeks. frustration and exhaustion. ]
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She wouldn't blame you, either.