The question catches him off guard, and Vanitas almost startles underneath it. Not because it stings, but more akin to having something come narrowly close and not suspecting it to be there. Vanitas doesn't flinch easily, because it can be the difference between standing and being in the dirt. Very few things even make him blink. He keeps the helmet not just because it was part of his identity, but because it has a practical use.
He'd been forged in the desert, where the sand itched and bit if it was allowed in to the seams.
Nobody has ever asked him questions, not like this. Most of the time, they had been something along the lines of Why are you doing this? and Vanitas' answer for that had always been simple. Because he had to. Because it was the only way. Because he was Darkness itself. His existence has been one long stream of agony, an exposed nerve tapped again and again until he could redirect the pain into strength. Turn it into physical power or shed it like the Unversed.
What was?
What was the worst thing to ever happen to him?
Vanitas' gaze slides from Bruce. Not on purpose, but because his attention goes inward, his brow furrowed deeply. He's never thought about this before. Why would he? It isn't like he had anyone around to ask. It wasn't like Vanitas had any kind of measuring stick to hold it up against, other than the snippets he dreamed from Ventus, where he lived and grew pain-free. The cloud settles over him, an almost literal thing in the kitchen, because the shadows flex without Vanitas thinking about doing it. Is Ventus the worst thing to happen to him? Knowing that he had everything good, everything nice? Knowing that if he'd never been rend from his heart then maybe Vanitas would never have experienced the endless anguish of his existence? He doesn't even think to factor his training into the equation. The old man only went hard on him to make him stronger, after all. And besides, didn't the fracture of his heart hurt much worse than anything that could have ever been physically done to him?
He falls into silence, gaze thoughtfully averted. Not because he's avoiding the question, but because he's actively ruminating on it.
no subject
He'd been forged in the desert, where the sand itched and bit if it was allowed in to the seams.
Nobody has ever asked him questions, not like this. Most of the time, they had been something along the lines of Why are you doing this? and Vanitas' answer for that had always been simple. Because he had to. Because it was the only way. Because he was Darkness itself. His existence has been one long stream of agony, an exposed nerve tapped again and again until he could redirect the pain into strength. Turn it into physical power or shed it like the Unversed.
What was?
What was the worst thing to ever happen to him?
Vanitas' gaze slides from Bruce. Not on purpose, but because his attention goes inward, his brow furrowed deeply. He's never thought about this before. Why would he? It isn't like he had anyone around to ask. It wasn't like Vanitas had any kind of measuring stick to hold it up against, other than the snippets he dreamed from Ventus, where he lived and grew pain-free. The cloud settles over him, an almost literal thing in the kitchen, because the shadows flex without Vanitas thinking about doing it. Is Ventus the worst thing to happen to him? Knowing that he had everything good, everything nice? Knowing that if he'd never been rend from his heart then maybe Vanitas would never have experienced the endless anguish of his existence? He doesn't even think to factor his training into the equation. The old man only went hard on him to make him stronger, after all. And besides, didn't the fracture of his heart hurt much worse than anything that could have ever been physically done to him?
He falls into silence, gaze thoughtfully averted. Not because he's avoiding the question, but because he's actively ruminating on it.