This would be perfectly fine advice in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases. Credence is the one left over.
He curls his fist again. He thinks of Mister Graves, the way he'd dismissed him for the very same flaws he's demonstrating now.
No power.
The abrupt pain blossoming from a hit to the jaw.
You're unteachable.
What Credence swings at the bag isn't a fist. It's a storm, a mass of hateful black energy, and it tears the bag from its moorings and hurls what's left of it at the far wall.
And then the moment passes, and Credence stumbles back, whole again and wide-eyed.
Porthos recoils back in shock and no little--quickly suppressed--fear, already reaching for his sword where he's hung it the moment he catches his balance. "Holy Mary Mother'a God," he curses, though it quickly switches to a low whistle of, well, awe, when he sees the destruction Credence has wrought, and that the boy himself has stumbled back and as well, and reverted to normal somewhere along the line. He's not sure what the hell to make of it, it's definitely nothing he would have anticipated even when Quentin had told him the boy was 'a brilliant sorcerer.'
"Not so sure punchin's anything you'll ever need t'worry 'bout if you can do that." He's not running, but he is wary and not coming closer again yet. "You all right, lad?" Because for all the power he'd just displayed Credence looks... well, shocked and a little out of sorts. Like maybe he hadn't expected it.
"'ey now, no call for that. You didn't do any more damage that way than I could if I gave it a good wallop with my fist." Which might not be quite completely accurate, but Porthos is fairly sure it's at least close. And the fact the boy's shake, well, it's not reassuring he did that by accident, and it's probably best he not go charging off distressed and maybe confused.
"Really don't like whoever you were thinkin' on punchin', huh?"
Credence looks at the bag, which right now is deflating against the far wall, bleeding sand from the dozens of gouges torn into the leather. He doubts, somehow, that a good wallop from anyone's fist could have done that.
"No, sir. This was - I should - I'm going to go," he says, asserting himself that tiny bit. "I'm sorry I wasted your time. I'll ask Quentin if there's anyone else who needs a lesson."
Porthos looks at him seriously, considers the way he's behaved so far and how much effort it probably took him to actually make that sort of absolute declaration... and he wants to tell him no, but he won't.
"Wasn't a waste, lad, not like I've got anything better t'do. Just-" He frowns for a moment, then continues. "Just remember 'at any kinda strength takes practice an' control. You're not the first an' you won't be the last t'do things you 'adn't meant to. There's no shame in 'avin' t'learn control, just in not tryin' to."
Credence, for just a moment - so briefly you'd be forgiven for thinking you
imagined it - looks absolutely furious.
Control has been his entire life. Every waking moment, half his attention
is on keeping the Obscurus suppressed, on keeping the pain under his skin.
He knows more about control, now, than most people learn in a lifetime. To
have a single slip taken for a lack of it, when it would be easier for
him to destroy this entire ship than it is to stand still -
And then the anger vanishes and he affects perfect calm.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2018-01-20 01:09 am (UTC)He curls his fist again. He thinks of Mister Graves, the way he'd dismissed him for the very same flaws he's demonstrating now.
No power.
The abrupt pain blossoming from a hit to the jaw.
You're unteachable.
What Credence swings at the bag isn't a fist. It's a storm, a mass of hateful black energy, and it tears the bag from its moorings and hurls what's left of it at the far wall.
And then the moment passes, and Credence stumbles back, whole again and wide-eyed.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-21 12:20 am (UTC)"Not so sure punchin's anything you'll ever need t'worry 'bout if you can do that." He's not running, but he is wary and not coming closer again yet. "You all right, lad?" Because for all the power he'd just displayed Credence looks... well, shocked and a little out of sorts. Like maybe he hadn't expected it.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-21 11:13 am (UTC)Credence looks up, startled, incredulous. Is he alright?
"Yes. I'm fine. I should go."
no subject
Date: 2018-01-21 11:58 pm (UTC)"Really don't like whoever you were thinkin' on punchin', huh?"
no subject
Date: 2018-01-22 08:19 am (UTC)"No, sir. This was - I should - I'm going to go," he says, asserting himself that tiny bit. "I'm sorry I wasted your time. I'll ask Quentin if there's anyone else who needs a lesson."
no subject
Date: 2018-01-24 04:14 am (UTC)"Wasn't a waste, lad, not like I've got anything better t'do. Just-" He frowns for a moment, then continues. "Just remember 'at any kinda strength takes practice an' control. You're not the first an' you won't be the last t'do things you 'adn't meant to. There's no shame in 'avin' t'learn control, just in not tryin' to."
no subject
Date: 2018-01-24 07:57 am (UTC)Credence, for just a moment - so briefly you'd be forgiven for thinking you imagined it - looks absolutely furious.
Control has been his entire life. Every waking moment, half his attention is on keeping the Obscurus suppressed, on keeping the pain under his skin. He knows more about control, now, than most people learn in a lifetime. To have a single slip taken for a lack of it, when it would be easier for him to destroy this entire ship than it is to stand still -
And then the anger vanishes and he affects perfect calm.
"Yes, sir. Thank you."