[ "Spreading knowledge" is a phrase that will raise a red flag or two for any self-respecting Brotherhood tech-hoarder, and Danse remains no exception, but the suspicion tinging his expression at this is still faint and he continues to listen without protest. It softens again at the rest of the explanation, anyway. If this is the sort of organization that trains medics, and provides care without gouging the needy--well, someone's sure as hell got to do it, and it's a noble enough service that Danse imagines he could overlook a fair few objections in the name of supporting their mission anyway, much as he does with the Minutemen (while still shit-talking them whenever Preston isn't in earshot.)
He's about to ask if Arcade is a medic, then, with interest both practical and personal, but he doesn't get the chance to interject. Nodding in silent agreement at this general assessment of the Wasteland's problems, he pauses at the poetic coda to it, visibly startled by a feeling he can't even quite name in response. It takes him back to the very first "Ad Victoriam, brother" he'd ever heard, the way the weight of lost history behind the dead language had moved him to a tightness in the back of his throat, the sense that he'd fallen in with people capable of preserving a small piece of something worth keeping and hard to find. Even the Brotherhood scholars he so admires don't go in much for actual poetry, Latin or otherwise, but Danse has never quite been able to convince himself that it's too frivolous to bother with, a hidden part of him always wanting to seek it out and never having the leisure time to do it.
He's never heard a full sentence of Latin spoken aloud. Not even haltingly read from a book, let alone pronounced so easily and fluidly as to be an auditory pleasure and a display of attractive competence in one. Who is this guy? ]
I-- [ For god's sake, he berates himself, pull yourself together. He clears his throat, not that it entirely helps. ] That's...a beautiful sentiment, actually. [ He's never even heard it in English before, and he appreciates it even in translation. ]
Did you learn that from the Followers? The Latin, I mean.
no subject
He's about to ask if Arcade is a medic, then, with interest both practical and personal, but he doesn't get the chance to interject. Nodding in silent agreement at this general assessment of the Wasteland's problems, he pauses at the poetic coda to it, visibly startled by a feeling he can't even quite name in response. It takes him back to the very first "Ad Victoriam, brother" he'd ever heard, the way the weight of lost history behind the dead language had moved him to a tightness in the back of his throat, the sense that he'd fallen in with people capable of preserving a small piece of something worth keeping and hard to find. Even the Brotherhood scholars he so admires don't go in much for actual poetry, Latin or otherwise, but Danse has never quite been able to convince himself that it's too frivolous to bother with, a hidden part of him always wanting to seek it out and never having the leisure time to do it.
He's never heard a full sentence of Latin spoken aloud. Not even haltingly read from a book, let alone pronounced so easily and fluidly as to be an auditory pleasure and a display of attractive competence in one. Who is this guy? ]
I-- [ For god's sake, he berates himself, pull yourself together. He clears his throat, not that it entirely helps. ] That's...a beautiful sentiment, actually. [ He's never even heard it in English before, and he appreciates it even in translation. ]
Did you learn that from the Followers? The Latin, I mean.