[the video turns on as a grey-haired woman trudges slowly upwards. the camera moves with her, like it's being filmed by something walking slightly higher on an incline. her eyepatch is off, showing silverblack where a blue eye should be, and her hair is stained a grimy red. she is singing, smoky and steady and low.]
For a first effort, this feels kinda last ditch. I guess this just got kind of drastic. Trust us, you just fell off the bus, sucker—yeah, well, payback is a motherfucker.
[her tone goes flat, but it is not calm. it is not serene. it is boiling under, and her words are as measured as they can be. her breath is shaking not just from the trudge upward.]
I'm coming for John first and you can't stop me. But don't think that lets you off the hook. If you think that you know how to mourn the First now, you have no idea what it's like for someone who remembers what it used to be. [she is the First. and augustine, john, all of them, they are people who found the ruins and crowned themselves kings.]
I will do to you what you did to the woman I love, and I will show you what it means to grieve.
[she makes a quick gesture to the camera, and the feed cuts.]
For a first effort, this feels kinda last ditch. I guess this just got kind of drastic. Trust us, you just fell off the bus, sucker—yeah, well, payback is a motherfucker.
[her tone goes flat, but it is not calm. it is not serene. it is boiling under, and her words are as measured as they can be. her breath is shaking not just from the trudge upward.]
I'm coming for John first and you can't stop me. But don't think that lets you off the hook. If you think that you know how to mourn the First now, you have no idea what it's like for someone who remembers what it used to be. [she is the First. and augustine, john, all of them, they are people who found the ruins and crowned themselves kings.]
I will do to you what you did to the woman I love, and I will show you what it means to grieve.
[she makes a quick gesture to the camera, and the feed cuts.]
[the voice that comes through this time is rueful, which shouldn't be a surprise. she never got a response from augustine the first time, and maybe that's for the best. she breathes deep and sighs before speaking.]
Hey, Augustine.
[good opening.]
It's Anna. I just... wanted to apologize for coming out so goddamn hot against you. I know what happened on the beach there and I know that it wasn't... premeditated or anything. And me and K, we actually sort of made up about it, so I'm just trying to make things a little better. With the people I hurt when I went on my stupid fucking rampage.
So, like, I guess to catch us up? I don't want to kill you, and I didn't kill John, and... that's kind of where I'm at. I'm sorry that I made that threat in the first place.
And if you don't want to get back to me this time either, that's fine, too. Just wanted to let you know. Thanks for listening.
Hey, Augustine.
[good opening.]
It's Anna. I just... wanted to apologize for coming out so goddamn hot against you. I know what happened on the beach there and I know that it wasn't... premeditated or anything. And me and K, we actually sort of made up about it, so I'm just trying to make things a little better. With the people I hurt when I went on my stupid fucking rampage.
So, like, I guess to catch us up? I don't want to kill you, and I didn't kill John, and... that's kind of where I'm at. I'm sorry that I made that threat in the first place.
And if you don't want to get back to me this time either, that's fine, too. Just wanted to let you know. Thanks for listening.
[ Alfred isn't here right now.
Sure, technically neither is Augustine, seeing as how he left his Omni on his bed when he went to the bathroom — but the key, here, is that Alfred is keeping John company, and Augustine has been reading some of (the real) Evdokim's diaries — which has, naturally enough, required the use of his Omni to do so.
When he gets back and picks it up again, resettling, he's surprised by the notification that he's missed a message — this thing has a message system? — but it's intuitive enough to find it, to play it back — ]
[ ... Well, then.
Perhaps it's just as well for Alfred that he isn't in the room; that spares him from being the target of Augustine's stare, or from having to explain what other message she's referring to.
It takes him another minute or two, anyway, to figure out how to call back, and what he's going to say — whether or not she answers. (Can she answer? Are these things required to be one-way calls, volleyed back and forth? At least, he supposes, that would cut down on interruptions...)
Then, of course, there's nothing left to do but the actual calling... ]
Ah — hello, Anna, apparently I'm not just 'Gus' to you anymore, am I? Well. Fun while it lasted, I suppose.
I'm not sure if I should be sorry that I missed your first call, but — well, I'm... here, and I listened, and I'll admit to being a touch confused still but you don't actually need to address that, if you don't want to. You can chalk it up to me being old, and then I'll make Alfred clarify a few matters for me.
But I'll confess I'm always pleased to know that people don't want to kill me.
[ He waits, a moment, to see if she's listening actively, to see if she says something in response — and if all else fails, well, he can always go back to his reading. ]
Sure, technically neither is Augustine, seeing as how he left his Omni on his bed when he went to the bathroom — but the key, here, is that Alfred is keeping John company, and Augustine has been reading some of (the real) Evdokim's diaries — which has, naturally enough, required the use of his Omni to do so.
When he gets back and picks it up again, resettling, he's surprised by the notification that he's missed a message — this thing has a message system? — but it's intuitive enough to find it, to play it back — ]
[ ... Well, then.
Perhaps it's just as well for Alfred that he isn't in the room; that spares him from being the target of Augustine's stare, or from having to explain what other message she's referring to.
It takes him another minute or two, anyway, to figure out how to call back, and what he's going to say — whether or not she answers. (Can she answer? Are these things required to be one-way calls, volleyed back and forth? At least, he supposes, that would cut down on interruptions...)
Then, of course, there's nothing left to do but the actual calling... ]
Ah — hello, Anna, apparently I'm not just 'Gus' to you anymore, am I? Well. Fun while it lasted, I suppose.
I'm not sure if I should be sorry that I missed your first call, but — well, I'm... here, and I listened, and I'll admit to being a touch confused still but you don't actually need to address that, if you don't want to. You can chalk it up to me being old, and then I'll make Alfred clarify a few matters for me.
But I'll confess I'm always pleased to know that people don't want to kill me.
[ He waits, a moment, to see if she's listening actively, to see if she says something in response — and if all else fails, well, he can always go back to his reading. ]
[there is considerable silence before anna says anything, or at least she respectfully allows him to finish without interruptions. depends on how charitably he wants to take it.]
...Could go back to Gus, if you want. "Augustine" is kind of a mouthful.
[yeah, she's here.]
Can't believe I spent this whole time worrying and you didn't even see the first message. What, did Alfred delete it or something? [a quiet laugh. she wishes her omen still had her back like that, but it's her own fault.]
But it's probably better like this. I was really hopped up on the Reckoning's Kool-Aid that first time. Made a pretty sick Marianas Trench reference at you, though. Since I was taking some real desperate measures.
...Could go back to Gus, if you want. "Augustine" is kind of a mouthful.
[yeah, she's here.]
Can't believe I spent this whole time worrying and you didn't even see the first message. What, did Alfred delete it or something? [a quiet laugh. she wishes her omen still had her back like that, but it's her own fault.]
But it's probably better like this. I was really hopped up on the Reckoning's Kool-Aid that first time. Made a pretty sick Marianas Trench reference at you, though. Since I was taking some real desperate measures.
[ The twist of a wry smile on his lips probably comes down the line — ]
I've been told that, a time or two — about the mouthful, that is. I don't actually care which you choose, although I think you're the only one I've actually said to call me Gus, here — for most people, it's Augustine, or Patience, or "that guy with the plague-doctor shrike mask", as the case may be.
[ At least she knows the mask in question — and his face, now, for that matter.
His fingers are tapping restlessly on his knee, at this point, thinking about Alfred deleting his messages — screening his calls? — and then not even telling him that Anna had offered up some sort of threat.
Threatening him with a Reckoning, no less. ]
I'm not entirely certain what he did with it, [ he says smoothly enough. ] I take it that you are, ah, not as infatuated with delivering such a... terminal justice, shall we call it, at this point?
I'd much rather go back to the musical references, even if I am not the singer that you wanted.
[ ... as it were. ]
I've been told that, a time or two — about the mouthful, that is. I don't actually care which you choose, although I think you're the only one I've actually said to call me Gus, here — for most people, it's Augustine, or Patience, or "that guy with the plague-doctor shrike mask", as the case may be.
[ At least she knows the mask in question — and his face, now, for that matter.
His fingers are tapping restlessly on his knee, at this point, thinking about Alfred deleting his messages — screening his calls? — and then not even telling him that Anna had offered up some sort of threat.
Threatening him with a Reckoning, no less. ]
I'm not entirely certain what he did with it, [ he says smoothly enough. ] I take it that you are, ah, not as infatuated with delivering such a... terminal justice, shall we call it, at this point?
I'd much rather go back to the musical references, even if I am not the singer that you wanted.
[ ... as it were. ]
[water under the bridge that she'll cross when she comes to it, perhaps? she'll let herself be satisfied with that. there's not really any other option available to her either, ultimately.]
Sure aren't, Gus. [she decides to switch back now, at least. there are other names she could call him now, if she wanted to, but she'll stick with the one that he's actually asked her to use—at least, now that the fact that she knows more than she once did is out there.] I'm more in the business of being what tomorrow needs now... or at least, I'm trying to be.
[the time between the sentences is longer than she thinks it should be. she's not sure how long it actually lasts. that's the way time dilates around the weight of her regrets, she guesses.]
I don't know what that looks like anymore, though. I mean... all right, fuck it, I'll just say it. I'm having a hard time moving past John. And maybe you get that and maybe you don't. I don't know.
Sure aren't, Gus. [she decides to switch back now, at least. there are other names she could call him now, if she wanted to, but she'll stick with the one that he's actually asked her to use—at least, now that the fact that she knows more than she once did is out there.] I'm more in the business of being what tomorrow needs now... or at least, I'm trying to be.
[the time between the sentences is longer than she thinks it should be. she's not sure how long it actually lasts. that's the way time dilates around the weight of her regrets, she guesses.]
I don't know what that looks like anymore, though. I mean... all right, fuck it, I'll just say it. I'm having a hard time moving past John. And maybe you get that and maybe you don't. I don't know.
Well.
[ He clears his throat; less of a need, not quite a performance — maybe more of a warning? ]
As far as the first goes — I'll believe it when I hear you sing it, even though I won't insist you sing it for John, or for anyone else you think might hate your guts —
[ And the kicker: ]
— not that I think he's actually all that likely to, mind you, any more than I do, unless I've missed a memo somewhere.
But.
[ There's a weight, a pressure, to the moment of silence he spends, here, organizing his thoughts well enough to phrase this for her; enough, maybe, to keep her silent, until he's done. That, or the fact he hasn't addressed her most salient final point. ]
— Actually, before I agree or disagree, I think I should probably make you tell me what moving past John is even supposed to look like, to you.
[ Bit of a letdown, really, isn't it. ]
[ He clears his throat; less of a need, not quite a performance — maybe more of a warning? ]
As far as the first goes — I'll believe it when I hear you sing it, even though I won't insist you sing it for John, or for anyone else you think might hate your guts —
[ And the kicker: ]
— not that I think he's actually all that likely to, mind you, any more than I do, unless I've missed a memo somewhere.
But.
[ There's a weight, a pressure, to the moment of silence he spends, here, organizing his thoughts well enough to phrase this for her; enough, maybe, to keep her silent, until he's done. That, or the fact he hasn't addressed her most salient final point. ]
— Actually, before I agree or disagree, I think I should probably make you tell me what moving past John is even supposed to look like, to you.
[ Bit of a letdown, really, isn't it. ]
[she knows this is a tricky subject. the fire has burned away into a cold, condensed ash of fear, but that won't stop her from being cautious about mentioning john. stripping away all that remains of whatever pretense they may have left. she's certain he's figured it out by now, all she left on the table in their last conversation. she wasn't subtle in the least, but that's never been her strongest suit anyway.]
[when she answers, it's like she still hasn't had a lot of time to sort through the words, even though she's been thinking about this for weeks.]
I spent months of my life here trying to figure out what John was up to, and then he just showed his entire hand all at once. [he just... tweeted it out.] And I thought, dumbass that I am, that I could still use whatever friendship I thought me and him had to, like, convince him that it's okay for him to just fucking stop what he's doing. Just sit back and chill and, like, live his life with the people who still matter to him, the same as we're all doing.
[she sighs. the throat-crushing terror of that night when she'd read him the riot act is still fresh in her head.]
But he's convinced that John Gaius doesn't exist anymore. That all there is left is the Necrolord Prime, that... that he's a god, and I am not. And moving past that just means stopping myself from feeling whatever bullshit way I feel about him. At least for long enough to convince myself he doesn't matter anymore.
[she takes a breath and realizes everything that just came out of her mouth.]
Hell of a fucking thing to tell someone I barely know, but here we are.
[when she answers, it's like she still hasn't had a lot of time to sort through the words, even though she's been thinking about this for weeks.]
I spent months of my life here trying to figure out what John was up to, and then he just showed his entire hand all at once. [he just... tweeted it out.] And I thought, dumbass that I am, that I could still use whatever friendship I thought me and him had to, like, convince him that it's okay for him to just fucking stop what he's doing. Just sit back and chill and, like, live his life with the people who still matter to him, the same as we're all doing.
[she sighs. the throat-crushing terror of that night when she'd read him the riot act is still fresh in her head.]
But he's convinced that John Gaius doesn't exist anymore. That all there is left is the Necrolord Prime, that... that he's a god, and I am not. And moving past that just means stopping myself from feeling whatever bullshit way I feel about him. At least for long enough to convince myself he doesn't matter anymore.
[she takes a breath and realizes everything that just came out of her mouth.]
Hell of a fucking thing to tell someone I barely know, but here we are.
[ He lets out a long, slow whistle, because... well, because he's an asshole, sure, but also because it is a lot, and it's the sort of thing where one of those whistles says a lot; not that he isn't obviously overly fond of his own voice, as well, and yet even he does actually know that sometimes it's worth condensing a few hundred, thousand, hundred-thousand words down into a single drawn-out sound. ]
I don't know that it's going to help, per se, [ dryly, so dryly, "if Anna shakes her Omni a few grains of desert sand may fall out" levels of dryly, ] but you've got some company in that boat you're in. Up to and including the part where he's killed you for it, more or less, and yet still has to face the fact that you're still here.
[ His fingers itch for a cigarette; the house is both far more flammable and has far worse air filtration than the Mithraeum; he compromises by pushing a window open, as he keeps talking, and then rolls and lights his cigarette as soon as he sits back down on its sill. ]
It's quite a lot like one of the last things I said to him, before, [ elliding neatly past quite a lot, really, ] about trying to make him just stop —
— and, well. [ He exhales: smoke and bitter, not-quite-silent laughter. ] Nearly half a year here, already, and I'm still learning things I ought to know by now, when it comes to John Gaius.
The problem is, of course, that he's full of bullshit.
[ There's a kinetic restlessness in his energy; he's pacing, wait, no, not inside his bedroom, better out on the porch, easy enough to slither through the open window anyway, and he doesn't actually give the slightest shit if John hears him, through either an upstairs window or the link that Augustine forced on him — ]
There's a phrase you may have heard before, although I've heard the first word any number of ways — "Sometimes, seldom, often — wrong, but never in doubt." That's him.
Made worse, of course, by the fact he is God —
[ — not that Augustine is actually noticing, here, that he isn't saying a god; that to him, John is still first and foremost and capitalized — ]
— but there's still a man involved in the equation; always has been. The Man who Became God; the God who Became Man.
Became Squid, and Filled Up With Bullshit, et cetera, but nevertheless.
[ He's lost the point; he stares at the tip of his cigarette, and the smoke drifting away from it, and tries to find it again. ]
For what it's worth, anyway, I'm fairly certain the only person he'd actually listen to about taking a fucking chill pill and acting human again is... locked up and frozen solid somewhere near the core of [ wait for it ] Pluto.
I don't know that it's going to help, per se, [ dryly, so dryly, "if Anna shakes her Omni a few grains of desert sand may fall out" levels of dryly, ] but you've got some company in that boat you're in. Up to and including the part where he's killed you for it, more or less, and yet still has to face the fact that you're still here.
[ His fingers itch for a cigarette; the house is both far more flammable and has far worse air filtration than the Mithraeum; he compromises by pushing a window open, as he keeps talking, and then rolls and lights his cigarette as soon as he sits back down on its sill. ]
It's quite a lot like one of the last things I said to him, before, [ elliding neatly past quite a lot, really, ] about trying to make him just stop —
— and, well. [ He exhales: smoke and bitter, not-quite-silent laughter. ] Nearly half a year here, already, and I'm still learning things I ought to know by now, when it comes to John Gaius.
The problem is, of course, that he's full of bullshit.
[ There's a kinetic restlessness in his energy; he's pacing, wait, no, not inside his bedroom, better out on the porch, easy enough to slither through the open window anyway, and he doesn't actually give the slightest shit if John hears him, through either an upstairs window or the link that Augustine forced on him — ]
There's a phrase you may have heard before, although I've heard the first word any number of ways — "Sometimes, seldom, often — wrong, but never in doubt." That's him.
Made worse, of course, by the fact he is God —
[ — not that Augustine is actually noticing, here, that he isn't saying a god; that to him, John is still first and foremost and capitalized — ]
— but there's still a man involved in the equation; always has been. The Man who Became God; the God who Became Man.
Became Squid, and Filled Up With Bullshit, et cetera, but nevertheless.
[ He's lost the point; he stares at the tip of his cigarette, and the smoke drifting away from it, and tries to find it again. ]
For what it's worth, anyway, I'm fairly certain the only person he'd actually listen to about taking a fucking chill pill and acting human again is... locked up and frozen solid somewhere near the core of [ wait for it ] Pluto.
[there are so many things she could say during all this. instead, she listens, and hears the telltale signs of that damned cigarette case of his, and she opens the window of her room to let the heat roll in even more freely than it already is. she pulls her beaten-up pack of cigs out of her jeans pocket and sets her omni down so she can light one in the manner to which she's accustomed. maybe it's stupid to invite more corruption or pollution or whatever it is she's doing, but she doesn't know what else to do right now.]
[as he explains things, she lets the nicotine try to calm her brain. it's good that she has a kindred spirit, she thinks. it's good that it really doesn't matter how close anyone is to john. she's not special, but she's not being betrayed, either. he really is just like this now. but—and there's the little bit of doubt. right at the end, there. it's the thing that she thought did make her special. she takes a moment to breathe a plume of smoke out.]
[so. she'd been locked inside pluto, huh? the center of pluto. in her tomb by the sounding sea of stars. yeah. yeah, john would do that kind of bullshit, wouldn't he. when she speaks again, her tone isn't as icy as the subject matter would imply.]
He called me something before he killed me, you know. I don't think he meant to do it. A slip of the tongue, so I guess this is one of those seldom times. [she takes another slow drag and breathes it out. this time, it's for dramatic effect.] Our names are just so goddamn similar, me and his Annabel Lee. Maybe I thought that made my opinion worth something more to him. But I guess I deserve to be chained down in the core of the Ninth House, too, for thinking crazy shit like that.
[as he explains things, she lets the nicotine try to calm her brain. it's good that she has a kindred spirit, she thinks. it's good that it really doesn't matter how close anyone is to john. she's not special, but she's not being betrayed, either. he really is just like this now. but—and there's the little bit of doubt. right at the end, there. it's the thing that she thought did make her special. she takes a moment to breathe a plume of smoke out.]
[so. she'd been locked inside pluto, huh? the center of pluto. in her tomb by the sounding sea of stars. yeah. yeah, john would do that kind of bullshit, wouldn't he. when she speaks again, her tone isn't as icy as the subject matter would imply.]
He called me something before he killed me, you know. I don't think he meant to do it. A slip of the tongue, so I guess this is one of those seldom times. [she takes another slow drag and breathes it out. this time, it's for dramatic effect.] Our names are just so goddamn similar, me and his Annabel Lee. Maybe I thought that made my opinion worth something more to him. But I guess I deserve to be chained down in the core of the Ninth House, too, for thinking crazy shit like that.
Shortly after Illarion's PSA goes up -- 17th-ish
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unsheathedfromreality
2022-09-19 04:00 am (UTC)(link)
[Despite having agreed on a bond with Augustine with the very practical surface reasoning of--literally--not knowing his own dead heart well enough to avoid corruption, Illarion's not yet made much use of that ostensible purpose for letting someone else monitor his buried emotions.
Point of fact, he has done exactly the opposite of using the bond for its intended purpose, despite having been alerted quite early this Blood Moon that something had cracked, shattered, boiled over inside of him:
(He knew. He was corrupt enough to know.)
He pled that he had the situation well-in-hand; he was using his usual methods to manage corruption and he was as fine as he ever was. If it took him much more meditation and incense and tea than usual to manage--well, that was to be expected in this season of the year, wasn't it? He'd muddle through.
Except he had not muddled through, and nothing he did or consumed diminished his corruption for long. It was a true wonder, in fact--or an advantage of Discipleship--that he had not gone full to Beasthood in Riteoir's hellish little pocket world.
And still stubbornly--miserably, mulishly--he had been refusing further help (because it would require talking about the unhealed wound that made every little broken-off pocket of Trench a nightmare revisited; because it would require resources taken from the far-more-vulnerable living) up until today (when? time's become a friable, knotted thing), up until he'd become completely unintelligible on the network from pillar-taint and enough people remarked.
You could go to the Sanctuary, one--more?--had suggested. You could strip your soul naked in front of strangers and wither beneath their abstract compassion, a pitiable object and not a loved flock-member, no, thank you, but no-- But at least if the advice wasn't helpful it was a trigger to get him finally, reluctantly shambling in the right direction.
Along the bond that tugged in his chest, at his heart, with the pulse of another's legible emotions. Back to the one person who both felt like home and like someone with shoulders broad enough to bear the notion Illarion hadn't been rescued quite fast enough from Nephele-that-wasn't; that all the effort expended on him had not completely saved him from that private hell.
He follows the bond, Iskierka flying ahead of him like a--ha!--omen of a storm; he is, by the time he's evaded another godspitting set of Riteoir's black hands and made it to the house, in enough of a state to go directly outward around wall and window and wall and closed door to drop in on Augustine unannounced. Drop, literally, into an uncomfortable huddle before the door--because he is a mess, has been a mess, with out-eyes shot black over the gold with Darkblood and his plumage a sickening unnatural dawn-pink worse than his native fuligin, talons and feathers and worse poking in haphazardly from out in enough profusion to make him look half-Beast.]
Ava, [he says, voice small and warped and uncertain,] Alik?
...Help. [Pathetic. But at least it's going to get him somewhere.
He hopes. Argonaut's children are good at that.]
Point of fact, he has done exactly the opposite of using the bond for its intended purpose, despite having been alerted quite early this Blood Moon that something had cracked, shattered, boiled over inside of him:
(He knew. He was corrupt enough to know.)
He pled that he had the situation well-in-hand; he was using his usual methods to manage corruption and he was as fine as he ever was. If it took him much more meditation and incense and tea than usual to manage--well, that was to be expected in this season of the year, wasn't it? He'd muddle through.
Except he had not muddled through, and nothing he did or consumed diminished his corruption for long. It was a true wonder, in fact--or an advantage of Discipleship--that he had not gone full to Beasthood in Riteoir's hellish little pocket world.
And still stubbornly--miserably, mulishly--he had been refusing further help (because it would require talking about the unhealed wound that made every little broken-off pocket of Trench a nightmare revisited; because it would require resources taken from the far-more-vulnerable living) up until today (when? time's become a friable, knotted thing), up until he'd become completely unintelligible on the network from pillar-taint and enough people remarked.
You could go to the Sanctuary, one--more?--had suggested. You could strip your soul naked in front of strangers and wither beneath their abstract compassion, a pitiable object and not a loved flock-member, no, thank you, but no-- But at least if the advice wasn't helpful it was a trigger to get him finally, reluctantly shambling in the right direction.
Along the bond that tugged in his chest, at his heart, with the pulse of another's legible emotions. Back to the one person who both felt like home and like someone with shoulders broad enough to bear the notion Illarion hadn't been rescued quite fast enough from Nephele-that-wasn't; that all the effort expended on him had not completely saved him from that private hell.
He follows the bond, Iskierka flying ahead of him like a--ha!--omen of a storm; he is, by the time he's evaded another godspitting set of Riteoir's black hands and made it to the house, in enough of a state to go directly outward around wall and window and wall and closed door to drop in on Augustine unannounced. Drop, literally, into an uncomfortable huddle before the door--because he is a mess, has been a mess, with out-eyes shot black over the gold with Darkblood and his plumage a sickening unnatural dawn-pink worse than his native fuligin, talons and feathers and worse poking in haphazardly from out in enough profusion to make him look half-Beast.]
Ava, [he says, voice small and warped and uncertain,] Alik?
...Help. [Pathetic. But at least it's going to get him somewhere.
He hopes. Argonaut's children are good at that.]
[ The first response to his abrupt intrusion is, of course, a scream.
The surprise is likely that it is a scream of delight, rather than shock or fear or horror; not to mention, perhaps, that the throat from which it issues is not, and never has been, humanoid — no matter how many people may have wandered through Augustine's room, this half-year.
The second surprise may have something to do with how the delighted screamer dive-bombs into the mess of feathery Corruption that used to be a shrike, but then — small children are always delighted by the appearance of their parents, even if the children in question are dragons, are they not? The unbridled, unconcerned affection as the little flier tries to burrow under those straying feathers, chittering and vocalizing and screeching, has to be worth something more than an injured eardrum, surely? ]
"Cas?"
[ To say Augustine is unsurprised by all of this would be a lie; he stands in the doorway, a small dish of raw, cubed (crab)meat balanced in one hand, looking perplexed, and maybe a little concerned — but is it his heart or liver or spleen displaying that, rather than his facial expression? How easy is it to tell which form of vision is involved in this perception? ]
"Petrie, off," [ he commands abruptly, with chirps and clicks of tongue and fingers to reinforce the direction; their reborn dragon-child lets out a sound remarkably similar to a raspberry before, quite begrudgingly, returning to the perch his other parent points at.
Even then, it takes a moment before Augustine says anything else; he's looking, assessing, a calm exterior over palpable concern, because — of course — it's the bond that gives away his emotions, no matter how well he masks them; the same bond that allows him to monitor Illarion's in turn. ]
"Are you comfortable on the floor, like that? Or do you think we can get you up on the bed?"
«Oh, Cas, you're leaking everywhere,» [ interjects Alfred, plainly dismayed, coiling himself around whichever dimensions he can reach — and setting off Petrie's irritable chattering again, in an obvious why does HE get to cuddle?! way. ]
The surprise is likely that it is a scream of delight, rather than shock or fear or horror; not to mention, perhaps, that the throat from which it issues is not, and never has been, humanoid — no matter how many people may have wandered through Augustine's room, this half-year.
The second surprise may have something to do with how the delighted screamer dive-bombs into the mess of feathery Corruption that used to be a shrike, but then — small children are always delighted by the appearance of their parents, even if the children in question are dragons, are they not? The unbridled, unconcerned affection as the little flier tries to burrow under those straying feathers, chittering and vocalizing and screeching, has to be worth something more than an injured eardrum, surely? ]
"Cas?"
[ To say Augustine is unsurprised by all of this would be a lie; he stands in the doorway, a small dish of raw, cubed (crab)meat balanced in one hand, looking perplexed, and maybe a little concerned — but is it his heart or liver or spleen displaying that, rather than his facial expression? How easy is it to tell which form of vision is involved in this perception? ]
"Petrie, off," [ he commands abruptly, with chirps and clicks of tongue and fingers to reinforce the direction; their reborn dragon-child lets out a sound remarkably similar to a raspberry before, quite begrudgingly, returning to the perch his other parent points at.
Even then, it takes a moment before Augustine says anything else; he's looking, assessing, a calm exterior over palpable concern, because — of course — it's the bond that gives away his emotions, no matter how well he masks them; the same bond that allows him to monitor Illarion's in turn. ]
"Are you comfortable on the floor, like that? Or do you think we can get you up on the bed?"
«Oh, Cas, you're leaking everywhere,» [ interjects Alfred, plainly dismayed, coiling himself around whichever dimensions he can reach — and setting off Petrie's irritable chattering again, in an obvious why does HE get to cuddle?! way. ]
[The scream freezes Illarion in place.
Not because it's unexpected--this is how the screamer always greets him, after all--but because he is, as Alik will observe, leaking. Patterns of eyes wind themselves into the grain of the floorboards; knots flower to uncanny golden insectile stares. Unnatural colors coruscate around the shrike's unstable form as he tries not to move--something he ordinarily need make no effort to do, but becomes so much harder as blood corruption spills to pillar corruption spills to twisted impossible limbs and tumorous overgrowth. He tries so hard not to move, not to touch the dear little dragonling burrowing under his hideous feathers, not to spread what's gone wrong with him-- And it is, thank stars and Saints and Rod in Prav, not necessary for him to hold out long because Ava is there, Ava's called Petrie back before the worst can happen, Ava's a calm anchor through their bond and taking the situation apart in a way Illarion cannot grasp.
(The weather is terrible beneath the shrouding fog of the shrike's dead heart; fury and misery surge and recede in waves, around the fixed and jagged panic of an animal caught in a trap. Leg-gnawing panic, self-mutilating panic. If he could feel it in more than jags and bursts, he'd have run, run anywhere, blind and witless until something ate him.
Instead, he's run here.)]
Will ruin your bed. Nothing to show for it, [he complains, grasping and failing at his usual black humor.
Even as he's pulling himself to shaking talons, trailing corruption behind him for the short distance to the bed, he tries to keep up the line of chatter--to pretend at a normal that's infinitely out of reach.] Surely--could do better. For that--than me.
Sorry, Alik--sorry (sorry, I'm sorry), [he adds, as the Omen festoons him and he collapses again--ungainly as the new-risen--across the bed. His arms, and arms, and clawed vestigial arms come up to cover his head; he gives a noise that's like a sigh formed in the lungs of Hell, the throat of a Resurrection Beast.] Was this, or. Or the sword.
Still an option. Say the word; I'll go-- [He gestures toward the window--it's not a long enough fall to put him out his misery, but the idea's there. (Doesn't feel like the right idea even if it's a "cure" he's availed--will avail--himself of before. He had a half-dozen chances before coming here; didn't take them.)
Iskierka, agitated but entirely herself still, darts to join Petrie on the perch. She bullies herself up against him, feathers on end, and begins preening him with the ruthless zealotry of a mother presenting her offspring to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, if he'd just do something about his wretchedhair scales--]
Not because it's unexpected--this is how the screamer always greets him, after all--but because he is, as Alik will observe, leaking. Patterns of eyes wind themselves into the grain of the floorboards; knots flower to uncanny golden insectile stares. Unnatural colors coruscate around the shrike's unstable form as he tries not to move--something he ordinarily need make no effort to do, but becomes so much harder as blood corruption spills to pillar corruption spills to twisted impossible limbs and tumorous overgrowth. He tries so hard not to move, not to touch the dear little dragonling burrowing under his hideous feathers, not to spread what's gone wrong with him-- And it is, thank stars and Saints and Rod in Prav, not necessary for him to hold out long because Ava is there, Ava's called Petrie back before the worst can happen, Ava's a calm anchor through their bond and taking the situation apart in a way Illarion cannot grasp.
(The weather is terrible beneath the shrouding fog of the shrike's dead heart; fury and misery surge and recede in waves, around the fixed and jagged panic of an animal caught in a trap. Leg-gnawing panic, self-mutilating panic. If he could feel it in more than jags and bursts, he'd have run, run anywhere, blind and witless until something ate him.
Instead, he's run here.)]
Will ruin your bed. Nothing to show for it, [he complains, grasping and failing at his usual black humor.
Even as he's pulling himself to shaking talons, trailing corruption behind him for the short distance to the bed, he tries to keep up the line of chatter--to pretend at a normal that's infinitely out of reach.] Surely--could do better. For that--than me.
Sorry, Alik--sorry (sorry, I'm sorry), [he adds, as the Omen festoons him and he collapses again--ungainly as the new-risen--across the bed. His arms, and arms, and clawed vestigial arms come up to cover his head; he gives a noise that's like a sigh formed in the lungs of Hell, the throat of a Resurrection Beast.] Was this, or. Or the sword.
Still an option. Say the word; I'll go-- [He gestures toward the window--it's not a long enough fall to put him out his misery, but the idea's there. (Doesn't feel like the right idea even if it's a "cure" he's availed--will avail--himself of before. He had a half-dozen chances before coming here; didn't take them.)
Iskierka, agitated but entirely herself still, darts to join Petrie on the perch. She bullies herself up against him, feathers on end, and begins preening him with the ruthless zealotry of a mother presenting her offspring to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, if he'd just do something about his wretched
Edited 2022-09-29 05:32 (UTC)
[ Ava doesn’t have time to fuss over Petrie like normal; the change to his parquet’s pattern is sign enough of that — Iskierka gets the quickest of (true, genuine) smiles, as he settles the dish of meat just before the perch, closer to her than to him. ] “Don’t let him eat that too quickly,” [ he murmurs, and turns his attention back once again to the shrike of the hour, or what’s left of him: shadows and feathers and too many angles and dimensions, twisting over and around and through each other as he pours himself into a bed that should have been an onto —
Ah well.
Never mind that even Alik is here-and-there-and-gone-again, so far as Ava’s poor eyes can see.
Never mind that the fine silk-and-linen sheets are withering and staining away, like stop-motion time-lapse photography of a black-mold devastation.
Never mind that this is the month of Never Mind, that knowledge is supposed to be the root of all wisdom, that Ava’s Omni rests cheerful and dark on his desk across the room, next to a pot of cooling tea and a familiar silver dish serving as an ash tray, for that matter. None of it actually matters at the moment, as Alik makes eye contact with his brother, interrupting Ava’s perusal.
He lights something — not a cigarette, for once, for all that it’s the same general size and shape; a stick of incense, this time, one it only takes him a moment to fish out of the familiar-looking bag slung over the back of the desk chair. Ashes to ashes; it can sit in the dish with all the others, just as easily, as the scent of new smoke begins to permeate the air, cutting through the corrosive funk of rotting feathers. ]
“Has it come to this, then, братишка?” [ The question is gentle, as is the brief almost-touch of piezoelectric aura against fourth-dimensional (broken) feathers. He does not ask how have you let yourself come to this point; he knows too well the way the shrike's perception of his own heart is no better or worse than his visual acuity in the absence of Iskierka's assistance. ]
«Don't be stupid.» [ In a surprise turn of events, it's Alik who sounds fierce and furious and impatient, his mind more a snarl than a hiss. Even Ava pauses, the silver-sharp flicker of his surprise cutting through the tangle of Corruption blooming in the dead heart before him. ] «How is wandering off to kill yourself going to help? That's not going to do anything to keep it from happening again!»
[ The hypocrisy, too, is thick enough in the room to cut with a knife, suddenly — prominent enough to be the fifth party present in a room that is not, after everything else, all that big — especially not with the unpleasantness staining the floor and sheets. Ava's expression is so incredulous that, eventually, Alik gives the impression of blushing, even as he remains coiled stubbornly close. ]
"Well. We won't, as it happens, be having that as anything before an actual last resort, I think," [ is all Ava says, once the seconds have stretched on long enough. He claps his hands together once, as if that's actually decided anything, and ... stretches one hand over to the end of the bed, where he catches the edge of a buttery-yellow blanket — tremendously soft, vaguely reminiscent of buckskin, with a pattern of dark brown moths printed along the border — and, giving it a practiced twitch, flips it to cover the confusing mess of once-and-future-person in his bed. ]
"Let's start there, for the moment," [ he says, calm and confident in the face of the pitiable, horrible monster ruining his favorite sheets. ] "Would you like some tea, as well? Or would you rather have me find somewhere to shove one of those frozen popsicles?"
Ah well.
Never mind that even Alik is here-and-there-and-gone-again, so far as Ava’s poor eyes can see.
Never mind that the fine silk-and-linen sheets are withering and staining away, like stop-motion time-lapse photography of a black-mold devastation.
Never mind that this is the month of Never Mind, that knowledge is supposed to be the root of all wisdom, that Ava’s Omni rests cheerful and dark on his desk across the room, next to a pot of cooling tea and a familiar silver dish serving as an ash tray, for that matter. None of it actually matters at the moment, as Alik makes eye contact with his brother, interrupting Ava’s perusal.
He lights something — not a cigarette, for once, for all that it’s the same general size and shape; a stick of incense, this time, one it only takes him a moment to fish out of the familiar-looking bag slung over the back of the desk chair. Ashes to ashes; it can sit in the dish with all the others, just as easily, as the scent of new smoke begins to permeate the air, cutting through the corrosive funk of rotting feathers. ]
“Has it come to this, then, братишка?” [ The question is gentle, as is the brief almost-touch of piezoelectric aura against fourth-dimensional (broken) feathers. He does not ask how have you let yourself come to this point; he knows too well the way the shrike's perception of his own heart is no better or worse than his visual acuity in the absence of Iskierka's assistance. ]
«Don't be stupid.» [ In a surprise turn of events, it's Alik who sounds fierce and furious and impatient, his mind more a snarl than a hiss. Even Ava pauses, the silver-sharp flicker of his surprise cutting through the tangle of Corruption blooming in the dead heart before him. ] «How is wandering off to kill yourself going to help? That's not going to do anything to keep it from happening again!»
[ The hypocrisy, too, is thick enough in the room to cut with a knife, suddenly — prominent enough to be the fifth party present in a room that is not, after everything else, all that big — especially not with the unpleasantness staining the floor and sheets. Ava's expression is so incredulous that, eventually, Alik gives the impression of blushing, even as he remains coiled stubbornly close. ]
"Well. We won't, as it happens, be having that as anything before an actual last resort, I think," [ is all Ava says, once the seconds have stretched on long enough. He claps his hands together once, as if that's actually decided anything, and ... stretches one hand over to the end of the bed, where he catches the edge of a buttery-yellow blanket — tremendously soft, vaguely reminiscent of buckskin, with a pattern of dark brown moths printed along the border — and, giving it a practiced twitch, flips it to cover the confusing mess of once-and-future-person in his bed. ]
"Let's start there, for the moment," [ he says, calm and confident in the face of the pitiable, horrible monster ruining his favorite sheets. ] "Would you like some tea, as well? Or would you rather have me find somewhere to shove one of those frozen popsicles?"
[There's the incense. There's the worry and the endearment--each of them a drop of soothing oil on troubled waters, insufficient to quiet the furor by themselves but adding up to something when put all together. There's--
Alik being furious, voice sharp as his bite, over Illarion's volunteered direct solution, and that's both a surprise and not. Trust one who had turned to suicide and seen what came of it (a myriad of what came of it) to have strong opinions on someone else thinking it any kind of answer to a problem, however temporary the death.]
Seems not, [he rasps in answer to Ava's question.] Bad habit--from when I didn't h̶a̴v̸e̵ ̸t̴h̵e̸ ̷h̸e̵l̸p̶,̸ [in answer to Alik's, even if it didn't need one. One of his too-many hands finds the Omen's scaly length for an apologetic pat, then simply--rests there for the comfort of it.
He remembers the blanket that's abruptly drawn over him; Ava had used it on John enough Illarion'd gotten familiar with its properties. A detached part of him wonders what it might turn him into, if he stays long enough under it, even as he pulls himself entirely beneath it like a hatchling beneath her mother's wings.
It is very comfortable there. The bond grows measurably quieter once his last appendage is tucked beneath it, though corruption still roils like a foul taste in the back of his mind, on the back of both their tongues. Muffled, he says,] Already a̸̭̥͚͙̪̓̑ṣ̷̡̱̾̏̉k̸̰͈̬̫̐ḛ̵͌d̷̼͔͍͈̃̀͆̾ me and I said tea.
[Pause.] Maybe. Did we. Did we already have it?
[Time isn't keeping its proper dimension for him, either, as a last insult.]
Alik being furious, voice sharp as his bite, over Illarion's volunteered direct solution, and that's both a surprise and not. Trust one who had turned to suicide and seen what came of it (a myriad of what came of it) to have strong opinions on someone else thinking it any kind of answer to a problem, however temporary the death.]
Seems not, [he rasps in answer to Ava's question.] Bad habit--from when I didn't h̶a̴v̸e̵ ̸t̴h̵e̸ ̷h̸e̵l̸p̶,̸ [in answer to Alik's, even if it didn't need one. One of his too-many hands finds the Omen's scaly length for an apologetic pat, then simply--rests there for the comfort of it.
He remembers the blanket that's abruptly drawn over him; Ava had used it on John enough Illarion'd gotten familiar with its properties. A detached part of him wonders what it might turn him into, if he stays long enough under it, even as he pulls himself entirely beneath it like a hatchling beneath her mother's wings.
It is very comfortable there. The bond grows measurably quieter once his last appendage is tucked beneath it, though corruption still roils like a foul taste in the back of his mind, on the back of both their tongues. Muffled, he says,] Already a̸̭̥͚͙̪̓̑ṣ̷̡̱̾̏̉k̸̰͈̬̫̐ḛ̵͌d̷̼͔͍͈̃̀͆̾ me and I said tea.
[Pause.] Maybe. Did we. Did we already have it?
[Time isn't keeping its proper dimension for him, either, as a last insult.]
Edited 2022-10-01 03:34 (UTC)
[ Ava sighs, and reaches up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, at the shrike's confession — and then stops himself, frowning briefly at his hand, and the ash-blackened stain on his fingertips from contact with that mold-patterned Corruption.
(Yuck.)
He reaches, instead, for a handkerch— no, better make it a disposable tissue, come to think of it; better, this way, to daintily (fussily) wipe his hands clean of it, to let the black-stain spread through the white papercloth, rather than his normal neat trick of dissolving all the chemical bonds in a substance in order to get it to turn to dust and then stop existing entirely. He doesn't trust corruption, and its traces and aftereffects, to know how to go away, like that — and would much rather not end up breathing in corruption-spores, come bedtime.
(Double yuck, really.)
But there's another question being asked, even as he reaches for the cupboard and its rapid-boil kettle and complement of teas — not that he particularly likes the way the strongest anti-corruption blend tastes, really, but after dealing with John in July he's certainly grown used to it — and he shakes his head, offering a sad smile to the bed and its contents. ]
"No, Пташка, we haven't had the tea, yet. I'm only just making it now." [ Said softly, soothingly —
But there are other things he can do, in the minute it takes the kettle's contents to reach a boil, and while the tea steeps in the pot, waiting to be poured out into cups. He finds a sock in need of darning, and insistently pulls it over Alik's head, only barely leaving enough space for him to flick his tongue out when he desires. He finds a blindfold — genuinely, purpose-built, albeit more commonly used in sexual situations — and shoves it into his pocket, because there's not a snowball's chance in Hell that he's going to manage to blindfold Petrie — he'll have to go in his crate-cage-sleeping-chamber, which used to be half of Ava's closet. (Clear proof that he has always loved being a father: giving up half his closet without even a hint of prevarication or objection, in order to provide a safe space for his dragon-child.) The still-mostly-full dish of meat leads the way, accompanied by a few dismayed squawks, and Iskierka is offered her choice of whether or not she's going to keep her role as Oversight Committee of Eating — and then the closet door is shut, to keep draconic eyes away from Illarion.
Because yes: Ava knows that name. (Augustine knows that name.) He has read the diaries kept by Preservation, and he has recognized the story of Domnika's murder of her grandchild, and he knows the names that Preservation has given to son and grandson alike. He also knows why it is that shrikes keep their names hidden away so carefully, and he knows that this really isn't the time for him to start using it — not without warning, at least!
He pours the tea; he brings the mugs to the bed; he sets them down on his bedside table, ties the blindfold around his own eyes, and settles in against the headboard, in the narrow triangle of yet-unclaimed bed. ]
"I think it's time to talk, dear one," [ he murmurs, soft and gentle as a poet's version of a summer rain — the version that isn't a tempestuous thunderstorm, that is. He can still perceive the shrike, even with his eyes closed beneath a blindfold — he is a Lyctor, after all! — and so he reaches out and rests his own hand in a calm and steady grip, through the blanket, of what is probably a knee. (Possibly a shoulder.) ] "For one thing, I'm going to assume that you aren't delighted by your current predicament, hmm?"
[ As for Alik — he's a snake, not a cat; he isn't purring. But he would be, if he were, as he stays right where he is, getting petted. ]
(Yuck.)
He reaches, instead, for a handkerch— no, better make it a disposable tissue, come to think of it; better, this way, to daintily (fussily) wipe his hands clean of it, to let the black-stain spread through the white papercloth, rather than his normal neat trick of dissolving all the chemical bonds in a substance in order to get it to turn to dust and then stop existing entirely. He doesn't trust corruption, and its traces and aftereffects, to know how to go away, like that — and would much rather not end up breathing in corruption-spores, come bedtime.
(Double yuck, really.)
But there's another question being asked, even as he reaches for the cupboard and its rapid-boil kettle and complement of teas — not that he particularly likes the way the strongest anti-corruption blend tastes, really, but after dealing with John in July he's certainly grown used to it — and he shakes his head, offering a sad smile to the bed and its contents. ]
"No, Пташка, we haven't had the tea, yet. I'm only just making it now." [ Said softly, soothingly —
But there are other things he can do, in the minute it takes the kettle's contents to reach a boil, and while the tea steeps in the pot, waiting to be poured out into cups. He finds a sock in need of darning, and insistently pulls it over Alik's head, only barely leaving enough space for him to flick his tongue out when he desires. He finds a blindfold — genuinely, purpose-built, albeit more commonly used in sexual situations — and shoves it into his pocket, because there's not a snowball's chance in Hell that he's going to manage to blindfold Petrie — he'll have to go in his crate-cage-sleeping-chamber, which used to be half of Ava's closet. (Clear proof that he has always loved being a father: giving up half his closet without even a hint of prevarication or objection, in order to provide a safe space for his dragon-child.) The still-mostly-full dish of meat leads the way, accompanied by a few dismayed squawks, and Iskierka is offered her choice of whether or not she's going to keep her role as Oversight Committee of Eating — and then the closet door is shut, to keep draconic eyes away from Illarion.
Because yes: Ava knows that name. (Augustine knows that name.) He has read the diaries kept by Preservation, and he has recognized the story of Domnika's murder of her grandchild, and he knows the names that Preservation has given to son and grandson alike. He also knows why it is that shrikes keep their names hidden away so carefully, and he knows that this really isn't the time for him to start using it — not without warning, at least!
He pours the tea; he brings the mugs to the bed; he sets them down on his bedside table, ties the blindfold around his own eyes, and settles in against the headboard, in the narrow triangle of yet-unclaimed bed. ]
"I think it's time to talk, dear one," [ he murmurs, soft and gentle as a poet's version of a summer rain — the version that isn't a tempestuous thunderstorm, that is. He can still perceive the shrike, even with his eyes closed beneath a blindfold — he is a Lyctor, after all! — and so he reaches out and rests his own hand in a calm and steady grip, through the blanket, of what is probably a knee. (Possibly a shoulder.) ] "For one thing, I'm going to assume that you aren't delighted by your current predicament, hmm?"
[ As for Alik — he's a snake, not a cat; he isn't purring. But he would be, if he were, as he stays right where he is, getting petted. ]
Oh. [Oh, they hadn't had tea yet; oh, he's come undone from time again. There is something mournful in the sound, and something resigned, for all it echoes as badly as any of the shrike's utterances. He curls further in on himself under the blanket, as if he could become small enough to vanish with enough rearrangement of his far-too-many limbs. Not that he should--he will be/has been(?) rebuked for saying it--and not that he could, but there's some small additional comfort to be wrapped in his own feathers. To feel that, contrary to what his head's saying, his body hasn't all dissolved away into meaninglessness.
The acute disconnection's made all the worse by being half-or-more realized and unable to ((feel)) much of anything but in kaleidoscopic, disorienting snatches (half the dissolving, thread-fine mycelia ruining Augustine's bedsheets were his, once)--and so he cannot make sense of where it is Ava goes, and what he does, around making tea.
But Iskierka sees, and Iskierka may not know what she's witnessing--the precise ritual of hooding and veiling that the Saint creates anew to reassure his flock-brother that those he loves are safe--yet she's quick to relay it all faithfully even as she removes with Petrie to the closet. (She can feed him there and still be an eye for her Sleeper, peering around door and wall.) Illarion absorbs it through her eyes, finding the sock Alik's wearing with his searching fingers as secondary confirmation--and makes a low noise from somewhere deep in his lungs. Oh, again oh, that this friend-and-brother he has found could look after him in such careful detail.
The feeling of abject misery and isolation radiating from beneath the blanket steadily lessens. By the time Ava's back beside him again it is a freshening squall where it had been a hurricane, kicking up spray and disarranging the waves but not threatening to swamp anyone. He curls toward the indentation the other man makes on the bed without disturbing that steadying hand (resting at a misbegotten joint that, anatomically, is probably a shoulder).]
Talk about? This? S' cock of a situation to be in. "̷N̸o̷t̵ ̶d̷e̵l̵i̶g̷h̷t̸e̵d̸"̴-- [He laughs. It's a bad sound. It would hurt if he had working nerves.] Very diplomatic. Lets, letting me demur. Keep t̶h̵e̴ ̵d̶i̶g̷n̴i̴t̷y̷ I don't have.
Did you remember that? The, the hooding. Do I teach you--him--m̴̟͋y̴͉̅ ̵̫̈́D̶͓͠e̸̩͐a̸̔ͅt̵͙̍ḫ̷͒ľ̴̞è̷̖ś̶͈s̷̗̅ ̴͇͘l̵̰̽o̵̫̚r̵̝͛d̸̮́. Him.
The acute disconnection's made all the worse by being half-or-more realized and unable to ((feel)) much of anything but in kaleidoscopic, disorienting snatches (half the dissolving, thread-fine mycelia ruining Augustine's bedsheets were his, once)--and so he cannot make sense of where it is Ava goes, and what he does, around making tea.
But Iskierka sees, and Iskierka may not know what she's witnessing--the precise ritual of hooding and veiling that the Saint creates anew to reassure his flock-brother that those he loves are safe--yet she's quick to relay it all faithfully even as she removes with Petrie to the closet. (She can feed him there and still be an eye for her Sleeper, peering around door and wall.) Illarion absorbs it through her eyes, finding the sock Alik's wearing with his searching fingers as secondary confirmation--and makes a low noise from somewhere deep in his lungs. Oh, again oh, that this friend-and-brother he has found could look after him in such careful detail.
The feeling of abject misery and isolation radiating from beneath the blanket steadily lessens. By the time Ava's back beside him again it is a freshening squall where it had been a hurricane, kicking up spray and disarranging the waves but not threatening to swamp anyone. He curls toward the indentation the other man makes on the bed without disturbing that steadying hand (resting at a misbegotten joint that, anatomically, is probably a shoulder).]
Talk about? This? S' cock of a situation to be in. "̷N̸o̷t̵ ̶d̷e̵l̵i̶g̷h̷t̸e̵d̸"̴-- [He laughs. It's a bad sound. It would hurt if he had working nerves.] Very diplomatic. Lets, letting me demur. Keep t̶h̵e̴ ̵d̶i̶g̷n̴i̴t̷y̷ I don't have.
Did you remember that? The, the hooding. Do I teach you--him--m̴̟͋y̴͉̅ ̵̫̈́D̶͓͠e̸̩͐a̸̔ͅt̵͙̍ḫ̷͒ľ̴̞è̷̖ś̶͈s̷̗̅ ̴͇͘l̵̰̽o̵̫̚r̵̝͛d̸̮́. Him.
[ It hurts.
All of it, really — the terrible laughter, the inhuman warping of his voice that is for no reason so simple as because he is not human — even the reminder, of who he never was, what he never was(beloved) — all of it hurts, but Ava doesn't flinch, even with the dusty trickle of blood clouding up his ear. ]
"It would be much easier if I could simply say 'yes', I suppose," [ he says after a moment, dissolving the blood into dust much finer than glitter, as if that would keep it from behaving the same way. ] "Here, bring out a hand so I can hand you this mug, my dear murderbird — yes, that's it — now drink up, because I think the easiest way to explain this, and several other things as well, is if I read you something."
[ He waits for a firm grip on the mug before he twists around, concentrating as he stares at his palm, until it seems to fill with the onyx of liquid Darkblood — solidifying into the curved onyx form of his Omni, and no matter how simple the party trick of summoning it back from wherever the hell Alik has most recently smuggled it.
He sets it in his lap, the better to take a sip of his own tea without ever pulling his other hand away from whatevermonstrously-angled joint that might be; he sighs, as he pulls up the relevant passage of the first of the diaries he's been reading, bookmarked for just such an occasion as this, because there's no way nothing changes after this; he clears his throat, and it sounds like grief being swallowed.
He reads conversationally, and it's easy — astonishingly, appallingly easy — to hear another, lost voice, overlaid atop his, speaking the same meaning in a language that Ava has never had the opportunity to learn, even in memories of a life that never existed.
He reads, and he rubs the shrike's back, or arm, or otherlimb — whatever it is — through the buttery-yellow blanket that insists, wrapped close, that Illarion is safe, even as Ava's words — Dusya's words — shatter him anew. ]
[ He reads, and he rubs the shrike's back, or arm, or otherlimb — whatever it is — through the buttery-yellow blanket that insists, wrapped close, that Illarion is safe; and even as Ava's words — Dusya's words — shatter him anew, they rebuild him, with the memory of sitting at the right hand of the Prince of Preservation, being held and cherished and soothed — and put back to rights, until he could almost believe he was not only well, not only free from this Corruption, borne of Trench, born of the Pillars — but he could believe, if only he wanted to let himself believe, that he was what he'd been before he was a shrike — the iron elf who first met General Evdokim, who made his trembling pledge of good faith before he'd learned how many other ways the world was full of those who had none. ]
All of it, really — the terrible laughter, the inhuman warping of his voice that is for no reason so simple as because he is not human — even the reminder, of who he never was, what he never was
"It would be much easier if I could simply say 'yes', I suppose," [ he says after a moment, dissolving the blood into dust much finer than glitter
[ He waits for a firm grip on the mug before he twists around, concentrating as he stares at his palm, until it seems to fill with the onyx of liquid Darkblood — solidifying into the curved onyx form of his Omni, and no matter how simple the party trick of summoning it back from wherever the hell Alik has most recently smuggled it.
He sets it in his lap, the better to take a sip of his own tea without ever pulling his other hand away from whatever
He reads conversationally, and it's easy — astonishingly, appallingly easy — to hear another, lost voice, overlaid atop his, speaking the same meaning in a language that Ava has never had the opportunity to learn, even in memories of a life that never existed.
He reads, and he rubs the shrike's back, or arm, or otherlimb — whatever it is — through the buttery-yellow blanket that insists, wrapped close, that Illarion is safe, even as Ava's words — Dusya's words — shatter him anew. ]
Every death I cannot prevent — every death I have already failed to prevent — every death that comes to our people, now and in the future, from the choice I made, and the choices we continue to make every day — weighs on my heart and soul twice as heavily as I am lifted up by news of each new birth borne of our beloved mothers. We did not know the cost, yet we chose to pay it anyway; the curse upon us is in the way that cost will also be paid — must also be paid — by our beloved, miraculous children, and their children, and their children's children, from now until the end of time.
All these things I write — our victories and our failures; our blessings and our curses; those rituals that Preserve us, and all known instances that have hastened our corruption and death — not to excuse my choices, both in the beginning and in allowing my people to keep me as their Prince, but to explain.
There will come a day when I, too, will be reduced to nothing more than ash and dust and a forgotten Name; not even my power, with that of my full Court behind me, will preserve me forever, and it is nothing but a fool's dream to hope otherwise. My people die; it is a blessing and a curse, to live so quickly, and I will never turn my back on my people and their need; I am one of them, and so the day will come when I die. (Know, my darlings Eska and Larka, if somehow I have kept you alive long enough that you read this, that I rejoice to know I am not alone; that I am not the only undying shrike; that I will know that freedom, however distant may be that day!)
I write, because I will die someday, and if I do not write our history — in its fullest, most terrible truth — our children's children's children's children (in whichever generation this becomes true) will lose this knowledge, and become no more than the merchants of Death we are already whispered to be.
If I do not Preserve us... who will?
[ He reads, and he rubs the shrike's back, or arm, or otherlimb — whatever it is — through the buttery-yellow blanket that insists, wrapped close, that Illarion is safe; and even as Ava's words — Dusya's words — shatter him anew, they rebuild him, with the memory of sitting at the right hand of the Prince of Preservation, being held and cherished and soothed — and put back to rights, until he could almost believe he was not only well, not only free from this Corruption, borne of Trench, born of the Pillars — but he could believe, if only he wanted to let himself believe, that he was what he'd been before he was a shrike — the iron elf who first met General Evdokim, who made his trembling pledge of good faith before he'd learned how many other ways the world was full of those who had none. ]
Edited 2022-10-19 23:46 (UTC)
-- agh. Again, Gray?
[The viewer will be treated to an image of a disheveled man sitting up in bed, still rubbing at his eyes from sleeping until mid afternoon. There's books and rumpled covers around-- and a black cat walking through and blocking the feed.]
What is it now? Is your food dish empty? Did Shouto send something he thinks is edible again?
[The Man audibly snorted-- and reached over to pick up his cat.]
... Why do you always have to throw something at me to wake me up?
[The viewer will be treated to an image of a disheveled man sitting up in bed, still rubbing at his eyes from sleeping until mid afternoon. There's books and rumpled covers around-- and a black cat walking through and blocking the feed.]
What is it now? Is your food dish empty? Did Shouto send something he thinks is edible again?
[The Man audibly snorted-- and reached over to pick up his cat.]
... Why do you always have to throw something at me to wake me up?
goggle was there ever an animated version of clover girl tries
[ Oh, great, another one —
"For fuck's sake, Alfie, how did you get me on this mailing list?" Augustine asks his brother-Omen, who shrugs in the way only a snake can shrug, having absolutely no idea of the answer. ]
Error: insufficient parameters for request. Needs more punctuation.
[ He still hasn't set a username for himself; on the other hand, at least it isn't coming through as dangernoodle, right? ]
"For fuck's sake, Alfie, how did you get me on this mailing list?" Augustine asks his brother-Omen, who shrugs in the way only a snake can shrug, having absolutely no idea of the answer. ]
Error: insufficient parameters for request. Needs more punctuation.
[ He still hasn't set a username for himself; on the other hand, at least it isn't coming through as dangernoodle, right? ]
[Oh buddy. Listen, he's from the seventies but he's not stupid. He will play along, though.]
Oh pardon. Let me write it in a way you can understand, since you're a machine and all.
01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100001 01101110 00100000 01100001 01101110 01101001 01101101 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100100 00100000 01110110 01100101 01110010 01110011 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01100011 01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100111 01101001 01110010 01101100 00100000 01110100 01110010 01101001 01100101 01110011
Oh pardon. Let me write it in a way you can understand, since you're a machine and all.
01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100001 01101110 00100000 01100001 01101110 01101001 01101101 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100100 00100000 01110110 01100101 01110010 01110011 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01100011 01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100111 01101001 01110010 01101100 00100000 01110100 01110010 01101001 01100101 01110011
[ Augustine, in his myriad years' memory, has never actually bothered to memorize the English alphabet in binary.
He can, however, recognize it, when he sees it; when he manages to convince his Omni to translate it, he scowls.
Then, of course, he gets an idea — ]
[ He's rather pleased with the effect. ]
He can, however, recognize it, when he sees it; when he manages to convince his Omni to translate it, he scowls.
Then, of course, he gets an idea — ]
01000101 01110010 01110010 01101111 01110010 00111010 00100000 01101001 01101110 01110011 01110101 01100110 01100110 01101001 01100011 01101001 01100101 01101110 01110100 00100000 01110000 01100001 01110010 01100001 01101101 01100101 01110100 01100101 01110010 01110011 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01110010 01100101 01110001 01110101 01100101 01110011 01110100 00101110 00100000 01010000 01110101 01110100 00100000 01110011 01101111 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100110 01110101 01100011 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110000 01110101 01101110 01100011 01110100 01110101 01100001 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 01110010 00100000 01110001 01110101 01100101 01110011 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00101100 00100000 01110011 01101101 01100001 01110010 01110100 01100001 01110011 01110011 00101110
[ He's rather pleased with the effect. ]
w@ s +here ever @ n @ n!m@ +ed ver$!on of clover g!rl +r!e$
Edited (oh my god i am not linking accounts dreamwidth i am making a JOKE) 2022-11-29 01:09 (UTC)
[ He would never admit it, but — for the record — he does actually snort a brief laugh when he sees this next response. ]
Goggle shows no results.
Do you wish to try a different search engine or different search terms?
[ «Are you just going to continue being an asshole to whoever this is?» Alfred asks, and Augustine only shushes him.
When Alfred reads the travesty that the not-particularly-clear misdirected search string has become, his serpentine posture wilts into that of one fully aware of what it looks like when Augustine's focus has been Ensnared.
(This search query is doomed.) ]
Goggle shows no results.
Do you wish to try a different search engine or different search terms?
[ «Are you just going to continue being an asshole to whoever this is?» Alfred asks, and Augustine only shushes him.
When Alfred reads the travesty that the not-particularly-clear misdirected search string has become, his serpentine posture wilts into that of one fully aware of what it looks like when Augustine's focus has been Ensnared.
(This search query is doomed.) ]
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