"The only problem is," says Daniel, shutting his eyes and sweeping off his glasses to dangle them from a weary hand, "not knowing if fighting is the choice you've been intended make. The self-fulfilling prophecy."
God, he's tired.
Not so much in the purely physical sense. He's fairly certain he's been on the verge of sleep-deprived collapse for hours on end.
Rather, he's tired of the broken string of cosmic misfortunes that get funneled into him, how the shock of each unknowable strike is clearly, plainly meant to disassemble him permanently but he always comes back from it, always, whether it is his logic or his destiny or his fate or the bizarre, contradictory fact that the otherwise indifferent Ancients simply will not allow him to die. Daniel still can't tell if it's out of some twisted sense of obligation, a way to justify their inaction, or if they simply want to punish him for daring to point out the injustice of their sanctimonious apathy.
He's tired.
He drops his glasses on the bedside table and rubs both hands over his face.
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God, he's tired.
Not so much in the purely physical sense. He's fairly certain he's been on the verge of sleep-deprived collapse for hours on end.
Rather, he's tired of the broken string of cosmic misfortunes that get funneled into him, how the shock of each unknowable strike is clearly, plainly meant to disassemble him permanently but he always comes back from it, always, whether it is his logic or his destiny or his fate or the bizarre, contradictory fact that the otherwise indifferent Ancients simply will not allow him to die. Daniel still can't tell if it's out of some twisted sense of obligation, a way to justify their inaction, or if they simply want to punish him for daring to point out the injustice of their sanctimonious apathy.
He's tired.
He drops his glasses on the bedside table and rubs both hands over his face.