He is, though. There's nothing else for him to do until he gets his legs back, and he's seen the water do this more than once before--this would ordinarily be enough for him to look away out of courtesy, maybe even for Deacon's sake under other circumstances, but he'd ironically wanted to be certain that the reflections weren't showing anything of him that he wouldn't want Deacon to see, and by the time it becomes clear that this isn't the case, he's drawn in.
His curiosity stems in part, at first, from the fact that he doesn't recognize anyone in the images. The apparent irrelevance to either of them is a departure from the pattern he's noticed elsewhere, in the rivers surrounding the camp. The Brotherhood recruiter part of his brain, the one that never quite switches off even when it couldn't possibly be less useful than it is here and now, scans that group of violent youths for any who seem to be hanging back or participating less, any who might be reachable, redirectable, given a more constructive purpose than senseless conflict--
--but that's before the violence escalates. It's one thing, at the beginning. A lot of the best knights and even some of the scribes he's known started out with street brawls and rumbles, even ones as shamefully imbalanced as the ones he's witnessing. Cutler might have been one of them, if Danse didn't recognize some of the landmarks of University Point. But it gets worse, the victims more defenseless, the cruelty more pronounced, long past the point where Danse would have wanted any of these men in his company, and by the end of it, he's reeling a little.
Only after it plays out does he belatedly recognize what he was looking for at the start, in the lean redheaded man who only at the climax of the brutality had begun to pull away from it, sea-blue eyes wide and sickened by it. Danse has never actually seen those eyes, or that hair, or even that particular face, or that frame before twenty-odd years of age and combat and wasteland hardship worked on it, and he doesn't make the immediate connection yet even if he should. He's just staring into the water in silence still, eyes narrowed.
It takes a moment to remember Deacon's even there, and Danse doesn't look any less disconcerted at the wavering shape of him, his head aching a little as his eyes try to focus on it. "Don't bother, then. I'll do it when I can walk. What the hell was that?" He jerks his head toward the water, assuming Deacon saw at least some of it. It would have been hard to avoid.
no subject
His curiosity stems in part, at first, from the fact that he doesn't recognize anyone in the images. The apparent irrelevance to either of them is a departure from the pattern he's noticed elsewhere, in the rivers surrounding the camp. The Brotherhood recruiter part of his brain, the one that never quite switches off even when it couldn't possibly be less useful than it is here and now, scans that group of violent youths for any who seem to be hanging back or participating less, any who might be reachable, redirectable, given a more constructive purpose than senseless conflict--
--but that's before the violence escalates. It's one thing, at the beginning. A lot of the best knights and even some of the scribes he's known started out with street brawls and rumbles, even ones as shamefully imbalanced as the ones he's witnessing. Cutler might have been one of them, if Danse didn't recognize some of the landmarks of University Point. But it gets worse, the victims more defenseless, the cruelty more pronounced, long past the point where Danse would have wanted any of these men in his company, and by the end of it, he's reeling a little.
Only after it plays out does he belatedly recognize what he was looking for at the start, in the lean redheaded man who only at the climax of the brutality had begun to pull away from it, sea-blue eyes wide and sickened by it. Danse has never actually seen those eyes, or that hair, or even that particular face, or that frame before twenty-odd years of age and combat and wasteland hardship worked on it, and he doesn't make the immediate connection yet even if he should. He's just staring into the water in silence still, eyes narrowed.
It takes a moment to remember Deacon's even there, and Danse doesn't look any less disconcerted at the wavering shape of him, his head aching a little as his eyes try to focus on it. "Don't bother, then. I'll do it when I can walk. What the hell was that?" He jerks his head toward the water, assuming Deacon saw at least some of it. It would have been hard to avoid.