[ Katsa has grown more familiar with the feeling of vulnerability over the years: of her mind, of her strength, of her heart. To some extent she might even have learned to accept it and open herself to it. But this sort of vulnerability has always been something she has chosen, and there lies the struggle. Perhaps if she'd known what he was capable of she never would have laughed with him in the dirt, her face flushed and her heart light. Perhaps she'd never have entrusted him with her sense of monstrosity, or she should have seen better what he might be when they'd killed together. That should have been a warning she could not have missed, but she had missed it. Death was in her own nature, too; what reason did she have to mistrust his?
She'd become vulnerable to him when she'd never meant to be. That vulnerability, that fear, is something Katsa has never once in her life known how to handle, nor wished to learn. Her Grace is survival. The truth of that, when she had learned it, was meant to save her. It was meant to save others. And she'd been confronted in the moments of her memory with a time she could not save even herself.
If she'd needed to, she would not have been able to save Hermione, either.
Blaming that failing on Gilgamesh is easier. Turning anger towards Gilgamesh is easier. Confronting her own weaknesses in this one part of her life is something she simply refuses. She made herself vulnerable without knowing; he seized upon it; and for all the violation and betrayal, the things that she ought to have prevented had she been stronger and smarter, wanting to think of nothing but his fault, his cruelty is for Katsa now the only option. ]
I don't know if anything I might have known would have made a difference for me. But perhaps it could have for you. I didn't know. I couldn't do anything. But now I do. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not him. No Servant, not anyone.
[ She'd failed Hermione for so long—far worse than she'd failed herself. ]
text;
[ Katsa has grown more familiar with the feeling of vulnerability over the years: of her mind, of her strength, of her heart. To some extent she might even have learned to accept it and open herself to it. But this sort of vulnerability has always been something she has chosen, and there lies the struggle. Perhaps if she'd known what he was capable of she never would have laughed with him in the dirt, her face flushed and her heart light. Perhaps she'd never have entrusted him with her sense of monstrosity, or she should have seen better what he might be when they'd killed together. That should have been a warning she could not have missed, but she had missed it. Death was in her own nature, too; what reason did she have to mistrust his?
She'd become vulnerable to him when she'd never meant to be. That vulnerability, that fear, is something Katsa has never once in her life known how to handle, nor wished to learn. Her Grace is survival. The truth of that, when she had learned it, was meant to save her. It was meant to save others. And she'd been confronted in the moments of her memory with a time she could not save even herself.
If she'd needed to, she would not have been able to save Hermione, either.
Blaming that failing on Gilgamesh is easier. Turning anger towards Gilgamesh is easier. Confronting her own weaknesses in this one part of her life is something she simply refuses. She made herself vulnerable without knowing; he seized upon it; and for all the violation and betrayal, the things that she ought to have prevented had she been stronger and smarter, wanting to think of nothing but his fault, his cruelty is for Katsa now the only option. ]
I don't know if anything I might have known would have made a difference for me. But perhaps it could have for you. I didn't know. I couldn't do anything. But now I do. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not him. No Servant, not anyone.
[ She'd failed Hermione for so long—far worse than she'd failed herself. ]