It matters a lot, I think. [Edward has been--is--was--trained. To be a bodyguard. Through no choice of his own, and no interest of his own. He's had no choice in his life, then.
It is, in many ways, significantly worse than if he was just paid to be there.
The bowl is trembling in his hands, and his magic is itching under his skin again, writhing, and he struggles to suppress it even as rage and horror claw at his throat. Edward was forced into it; was trained to the point where he apparently doesn't see his life having any other purpose than protecting Oswald.
He's not doing this by choice; he's doing it because someone made him believe it was all he was worth. It's obvious.] You didn't have a choice.
[he can feel tendrils of black magic starting to crawl up and over his cheeks, and his spoon rattles in his bowl a bit--his magic writhes underneath his skin, breaking through the barrier; he wants to scream again, to claw his skin off.
he needs to get out of here before he completely loses control.]
...excuse me. [he pushes to his feet, setting his bowl aside, and walks towards the bathroom again]
[Edward's quiet, at first. Just watching Oswald. He doesn't understand what's wrong. This is just the way things are, isn't it? What's wrong with that?
And then Oswald rises and he doesn't
know what to do]
Y-Your Highness, I-- I'm sorry, did I say something wrong? I don't understand...
[there's a spike, then, of pure rage. Of course he doesn't know. How could he know. Oswald's hand comes up to grip the door frame, fingers digging in.
The shadows in the room lengthen and darken further, a couple tendrils starting to crawl up the legs of Edward's bed.
It's not until he hears the snapping of wood--a loud crack pulling his attention and jolting him out of his blinding rage--does he realize that his entire hand is black, fingertips elongated into full-on claws, and he's splintered part of the door frame with his grip.
There's a spike of panic, fear--he turns to look behind himself, and Edward can now see streaks of black climbing up the side of his face like cracks in clay, eyes that were once blue, now a deep, blood red, wide and afraid as they flick to the shadows crawling up Edward's bed.] No--! [He reaches out a clawed hand and yanks hardon his magic--and the shadows seem to all retreat, sliding across the floors and ceilings and walls to coalesce into him. And it hurts, that panicked sharp pull back into himself.
Oswald makes a pained noise, flinching, fingers tightening further on the door frame--he needs to separate himself, he won't--he can't--]
Excuse me. [hissed, pained, before he's hurrying inside the bathroom and shutting the door behind him]
[Edward watches as that all happens, frozen. Not in fear, but just... not knowing what he should do. If there is fear, it's for Oswald far more than it is of him. All the more so once Oswald makes that pained noise.]
Os-- Your Highness--
[All Edward wants is to get up, to follow, to make sure Oswald is alright, but.
He can't. That didn't help last time. It just made things worse.
Seems he's awfully good at making things worse.
So he stays where he is. Just lying in bed. Staring down at the covers and thinking. Trying to figure out where he went wrong. It doesn't work, he just... can't. He doesn't understand. Can't understand. Wishing he did won't fix anything, but he doesn't know what else he can do.
He keeps staring down, frozen. Trying to control his breathing. Focusing on staying alert. Like he's been taught. It... helps, a little. Trying to think about this too much just gives him this awful feeling in his stomach...
[Edward hasn't done much during that time. Not that he can, anyway, seeing as he's pretty stuck here, but he's just been thinking. And trying not to think, at the same time. It's hard.
He looks up, though, as he hears the door open. Oswald is there, back again. And while it's not as if much could happen in the bathroom, there's an immediate feeling of relief at seeing him. As there is always.
More so, now.]
...
[He wants to speak up. Say something. But right now, he's... absolutely terrified he'll say the wrong thing again. It seems to be a pattern...]
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...It's... my job. As I said, my purpose.
I don't need anything else.
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What do you mean it's your purpose?
That is--how did you come to that conclusion?
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It's what I was trained for. Since I was very young.
[As if they're not still young.]
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You were...trained to think that your purpose is to protect me?
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Protecting you is... it's what I'm for.
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Did you choose it? Did you want it?
[his hands tighten on that bowl] Or did someone choose for you?
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[what]
That... Why does that matter?
[that probably answers that, though]
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It is, in many ways, significantly worse than if he was just paid to be there.
The bowl is trembling in his hands, and his magic is itching under his skin again, writhing, and he struggles to suppress it even as rage and horror claw at his throat. Edward was forced into it; was trained to the point where he apparently doesn't see his life having any other purpose than protecting Oswald.
He's not doing this by choice; he's doing it because someone made him believe it was all he was worth. It's obvious.] You didn't have a choice.
[he can feel tendrils of black magic starting to crawl up and over his cheeks, and his spoon rattles in his bowl a bit--his magic writhes underneath his skin, breaking through the barrier; he wants to scream again, to claw his skin off.
he needs to get out of here before he completely loses control.]
...excuse me. [he pushes to his feet, setting his bowl aside, and walks towards the bathroom again]
no subject
And then Oswald rises and he doesn't
know what to do]
Y-Your Highness, I-- I'm sorry, did I say something wrong? I don't understand...
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...No, Edward. You didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault. [...do the shadows in the room suddenly seem longer than they should be?]
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[he can't help it if he doesn't know...]
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The shadows in the room lengthen and darken further, a couple tendrils starting to crawl up the legs of Edward's bed.
It's not until he hears the snapping of wood--a loud crack pulling his attention and jolting him out of his blinding rage--does he realize that his entire hand is black, fingertips elongated into full-on claws, and he's splintered part of the door frame with his grip.
There's a spike of panic, fear--he turns to look behind himself, and Edward can now see streaks of black climbing up the side of his face like cracks in clay, eyes that were once blue, now a deep, blood red, wide and afraid as they flick to the shadows crawling up Edward's bed.] No--! [He reaches out a clawed hand and yanks hardon his magic--and the shadows seem to all retreat, sliding across the floors and ceilings and walls to coalesce into him. And it hurts, that panicked sharp pull back into himself.
Oswald makes a pained noise, flinching, fingers tightening further on the door frame--he needs to separate himself, he won't--he can't--]
Excuse me. [hissed, pained, before he's hurrying inside the bathroom and shutting the door behind him]
no subject
Os-- Your Highness--
[All Edward wants is to get up, to follow, to make sure Oswald is alright, but.
He can't. That didn't help last time. It just made things worse.
Seems he's awfully good at making things worse.
So he stays where he is. Just lying in bed. Staring down at the covers and thinking. Trying to figure out where he went wrong. It doesn't work, he just... can't. He doesn't understand. Can't understand. Wishing he did won't fix anything, but he doesn't know what else he can do.
He keeps staring down, frozen. Trying to control his breathing. Focusing on staying alert. Like he's been taught. It... helps, a little. Trying to think about this too much just gives him this awful feeling in his stomach...
He'll.
Just wait...]
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It'll be at least a solid 45 minutes before Oswald feels like he's in control enough that he can leave the bathroom.
When he comes out, he looks...tired. Or blank. It's a bit hard to discern, actually. But he'll reemerge, closing the door behind him.
There isn't a lick of shadow to be seen]
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He looks up, though, as he hears the door open. Oswald is there, back again. And while it's not as if much could happen in the bathroom, there's an immediate feeling of relief at seeing him. As there is always.
More so, now.]
...
[He wants to speak up. Say something. But right now, he's... absolutely terrified he'll say the wrong thing again. It seems to be a pattern...]
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...apologies. I needed a moment to collect myself.
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[That's fine. However long he needs.
Edward still stays quiet. He doesn't want to upset Oswald again...]