[Heaven help her. She really will lose her mind if they carry on like this. Her mouth twists, she blinks quick. Recovers, but only just.]
...No. You're not selfish at all.
[They feel like voyeurs, these glittering gems of eyes. She has a mad urge to cover them. Don't look. At her, at him. If she could pluck them free and smooth the scales down she would. What more does this man have to go through? All in the name of, what? Nothing?
That's the most egregious part. She can't even think of a subpar moral to slap onto these trials.
Rosamund looks to the gorget and smiles. It's easier to address than the rest. Something that won't choke her with potent words.]
But of course.
[Even sat down Sidon is of a size. Rosamund brings herself onto the ledge at his side, sat high on her knees so she might reach around the back of his neck. The clasp is at the rear here, and she is working blind. Close, too, leaned into the gesture and so left face to face with him.
He has lovely eyes. Golden, but of a different tone than Ylfa's. It reminds her of things reflected underwater, when sunlight splits on brilliant colors in the current.
The clasp yields. She smoothes it around his neck and lets her hands rest at his front.]
[ the eyes don't listen. they seem to move in secret, only when she isn't quite looking—flat, unreal, until the pupil of them shifts out of the corner of her vision.
but he is ignoring them, pointedly. he watches her instead, even if his request has brought her closer than he intended. it brings into full view the scars on her face, the individual thorns that make up her briars. it makes her look rougher-hewn than the royalty he's known—less polished. more lived in. he can't think of a time he's thought of her as more princess than person.
at the end, he smiles, putting his hands over hers gratefully. he pushes the crest of his head against hers, like a dolphin bumping into glass. ]
Perfect. Thank you.
[ he sits back, chin up and posture straight, though there's still a weariness in how low his tail and fins sit. he keeps a hand rested against hers while the rust allows it. ]
...I never had a chance to ask you what happened, the time you disappeared. [ because he was. dead. ] I don't suppose yours had a moral worth ruminating over?
[The bump is a bit surprising. She giggles under her breath, a soundless chuff of air that draws a grin.]
You're welcome.
[He sits up and she sits down, yet the contact doesn't break. He cradles her hand to him, between broad chest and broad palm, heating her chilled fingers. She finds it cold down here at times so it's more than welcome. It keeps him solid in her mind. Not gone again, not yet.
She wonders if he worries about it too. He still bears the look of a man laid low, even if the worst wounds have evaporated. Why him? she thinks bitterly, Why twice?]
O-oh. A moral? [Terribly pointed questioning there. Rosamund laughs a little and shakes her head. The gesture doesn't come easy. It only braces her in fractions.] I suppose you could say there was.
It was during the week where we shared our memories. I heard similar things happened here, but, anyway, it was a mission of sorts, and it played very strongly on that. We saw each other's memories, except they'd been altered to reflect something perfect. And we had to take turns shaking each other out of it. Even if...the reality was honestly quite cruel to watch.
[ there is something to being tactile—something that very few of the people here are, especially on a week that punishes the habit so severely. but after weeks of being viciously and violently taken from each other, there is something to the heft of a hand in his. the grounding weight of a hug.
he feels present like this, after several days away. talking with a friend about their woes—it's such a simple thing to help feel alive again, just holding her hand and frowning. ]
It does sound similar to something Eunhyuk and Viktor experienced.
[ he sighs, and one of the red eyes shifts to look at her. his usual enthusiasm sheds for something more thoughtful. ]
...I doubt there is a 'moral' to these things, myself. What point is there, to show someone what they could have, only to take it away? To make us consider what we lack? I searched for a point to it all, and I can take it as a lesson in... empathy, but little else.
I'm sorry for the things this place demands of us.
[The extra gaze is unnerving. How active are these eyes? And who is watching through them? She wets her lips and does her best to ignore it. Theoretically she's always been watched, just not in ways she could perceive.]
Even when there is, that doesn't mean it's anything worth listening to. I've got — I don't know who all knows, but. That's kind of the rule in my world.
[Hardly like it matters now. Half the living figured her out, and she's certain gossip spreads among the dead. And what is there left to hide? She had been dragged up and forced to died on display. Dignity was out the window, and anyone could find her life story on a bookshelf.]
We're just simple little stories, following silly little morals that don't make much sense once you start to think twice about them. Things like True Love and always being good and never telling lies? None of that works in reality.
I thought I had already learned that lesson. Being here? It showed me I really hadn't.
[She purses her lips.]
Mine was...I had my Happy Ending. The way my story was supposed to go. I would have been married to a handsome prince, who'd rescued me and we'd fallen instantly in love the second we looked at each other, and my family and friends would all be there and there would never be a single problem ever again. La-di-dah-di-dah, that whole scene. Too good to be true.
[She laughs a little. It's so obvious from the outside, isn't it?]
Even if I know better to believe in all that, it was still very...very hard to let go of. To let it go back to bones and briars and...to leave him hanging there.
[ the eyes aren't that active—their pupils shift from time to time, watching her, watching him. there is a notable tick in tension in his hand every time the latter happens, but he is making a tremendous effort to ignore them.
he keeps his focus intently on her instead, and this story of hers. he doesn't know the context of sleeping beauty, the story behind her briars and all the symbolism that made itself so obvious in her execution. what it brings into sharp relief instead is why she is the way she is. the tattoo she chose. the way she'd phrased her questions, when he'd returned from the first of these journeys.
he gives her hand a squeeze. rather than a playful bump, he leans forward enough to gently rest his head against the crest of her hair, dodging any rust and thorns. it has the energy of a hound resting its oversized head on someone's knee. ]
...It is difficult to give up on such a dream. [ a pause ] We were forced to do something like that too.
[ lots of common themes going on. ]
It is... remarkably easy to fall for? Tempting. Especially when things are difficult—don't we all find ourselves wishing for something easier? [ simple times. love at first sight. happy endings. ] Still. In this life of hardship, I met you.
So I'm sorry, one prince to another, to the promise of a man you didn't know. But thank you for being here, instead.
You were? [Curious. She'd thought they might have had a run in with one of Lucien's tricksy gods.] You'll tell me about it, won't you?
[And she's grateful for the new gesture, too. He's very comforting. You might not imagine it, with his size and taking after a creature of the deep. But they fit quite snugly together, and she's happy for the weight of him, the strength. Too often she feels frail standing on her own. Her fingers flex, find new grip on his palm. Her thumb rubs over the minute scales there, easing down the grain.]
...I think I prefer this too. [She bumps her head up softly, mindful of the briars. Puts her other arm around his back.] Not the way it's happened, but meeting you. Everyone, really, but you've been...very, very kind to me. And you're so much fun, and you're always honest, and you care so deeply for everyone.
It's an honour just to know you, Sidon. [She chuckles, soft and breathless.] My good Prince.
[ oh. she's just so direct in her praise. is this what it's like, talking to him? he has to laugh right back. ]
Likewise, my Princess...! I've rarely met anyone so fearsome in their kindness.
[ then the contented rumbling settles, because—yes. he ought to tell her. ]
In our journey, it was... [ there's a moment's pause, tongue running against the back of his teeth. he is honest, and open, but vulnerability is a different beast. he can usually connect to others without it—it's something he'd rather contain in written word, carefully plucked over. but she wouldn't appreciate something so curated, would she? so he thinks, and recalls. ] I should start from the beginning. Lucien's journal—it is a terrible thing. Never so much as open its cover. It is inhabited by mages, whose influence worked on our minds immediately—we discovered the civilization they'd driven to terror and ruin, and our minds began to slip and turn against one another.
We came upon some of their technology, which created matter from... nothing. Like a god, yet not without a cost. It created a creature from our dreams—the faces of those we loved, or lost. My sister, my friends—you, Shouxue, Viktor. Countless others, amongst all of us.
I could not bring myself to fight it, but— [ he shakes his head ] it gave up fighting. Perhaps this 'dream' of ours simply didn't want to live. Its death, I think, only drove us further into madness.
[Each successive story she hears of these places gets worse and worse. That it ties so closely with other she cares about (Lucien, who's suffered enough for several lifetimes) and comes to such acute ruination puts her heart in a vice grip. Rosamund swallows back a hard lump in her throat, head shaking as he comes to the end of the tale.]
The ways that they draw up all our old wounds is just insidious. I can't blame you for not wanting to fight them.
[Taking their forms, taking the shape of his family. What could you be expected to do?]
Still, it's a little sad. Even it couldn't find the will to keep living. [She presses her lips tight.] I'm sorry. That sounds awful, Sidon. You shouldn't have had to see or do any of it.
[Her head turns, just so she might press her nose against him, weld her cheek to his side. His chin stays firm atop her head. She breathes more evenly for it, letting her eyes close.
Dreadful that he had gone. Miraculous that he came back. That she can keep him so close, if not for always then for when it counts the most.]
I hope your head is more clear now. It hasn't lingered at all, has it?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
...No. You're not selfish at all.
[They feel like voyeurs, these glittering gems of eyes. She has a mad urge to cover them. Don't look. At her, at him. If she could pluck them free and smooth the scales down she would. What more does this man have to go through? All in the name of, what? Nothing?
That's the most egregious part. She can't even think of a subpar moral to slap onto these trials.
Rosamund looks to the gorget and smiles. It's easier to address than the rest. Something that won't choke her with potent words.]
But of course.
[Even sat down Sidon is of a size. Rosamund brings herself onto the ledge at his side, sat high on her knees so she might reach around the back of his neck. The clasp is at the rear here, and she is working blind. Close, too, leaned into the gesture and so left face to face with him.
He has lovely eyes. Golden, but of a different tone than Ylfa's. It reminds her of things reflected underwater, when sunlight splits on brilliant colors in the current.
The clasp yields. She smoothes it around his neck and lets her hands rest at his front.]
Is that all right?
no subject
but he is ignoring them, pointedly. he watches her instead, even if his request has brought her closer than he intended. it brings into full view the scars on her face, the individual thorns that make up her briars. it makes her look rougher-hewn than the royalty he's known—less polished. more lived in. he can't think of a time he's thought of her as more princess than person.
at the end, he smiles, putting his hands over hers gratefully. he pushes the crest of his head against hers, like a dolphin bumping into glass. ]
Perfect. Thank you.
[ he sits back, chin up and posture straight, though there's still a weariness in how low his tail and fins sit. he keeps a hand rested against hers while the rust allows it. ]
...I never had a chance to ask you what happened, the time you disappeared. [ because he was. dead. ] I don't suppose yours had a moral worth ruminating over?
no subject
You're welcome.
[He sits up and she sits down, yet the contact doesn't break. He cradles her hand to him, between broad chest and broad palm, heating her chilled fingers. She finds it cold down here at times so it's more than welcome. It keeps him solid in her mind. Not gone again, not yet.
She wonders if he worries about it too. He still bears the look of a man laid low, even if the worst wounds have evaporated. Why him? she thinks bitterly, Why twice?]
O-oh. A moral? [Terribly pointed questioning there. Rosamund laughs a little and shakes her head. The gesture doesn't come easy. It only braces her in fractions.] I suppose you could say there was.
It was during the week where we shared our memories. I heard similar things happened here, but, anyway, it was a mission of sorts, and it played very strongly on that. We saw each other's memories, except they'd been altered to reflect something perfect. And we had to take turns shaking each other out of it. Even if...the reality was honestly quite cruel to watch.
no subject
he feels present like this, after several days away. talking with a friend about their woes—it's such a simple thing to help feel alive again, just holding her hand and frowning. ]
It does sound similar to something Eunhyuk and Viktor experienced.
[ he sighs, and one of the red eyes shifts to look at her. his usual enthusiasm sheds for something more thoughtful. ]
...I doubt there is a 'moral' to these things, myself. What point is there, to show someone what they could have, only to take it away? To make us consider what we lack? I searched for a point to it all, and I can take it as a lesson in... empathy, but little else.
I'm sorry for the things this place demands of us.
no subject
Even when there is, that doesn't mean it's anything worth listening to. I've got — I don't know who all knows, but. That's kind of the rule in my world.
[Hardly like it matters now. Half the living figured her out, and she's certain gossip spreads among the dead. And what is there left to hide? She had been dragged up and forced to died on display. Dignity was out the window, and anyone could find her life story on a bookshelf.]
We're just simple little stories, following silly little morals that don't make much sense once you start to think twice about them. Things like True Love and always being good and never telling lies? None of that works in reality.
I thought I had already learned that lesson. Being here? It showed me I really hadn't.
[She purses her lips.]
Mine was...I had my Happy Ending. The way my story was supposed to go. I would have been married to a handsome prince, who'd rescued me and we'd fallen instantly in love the second we looked at each other, and my family and friends would all be there and there would never be a single problem ever again. La-di-dah-di-dah, that whole scene. Too good to be true.
[She laughs a little. It's so obvious from the outside, isn't it?]
Even if I know better to believe in all that, it was still very...very hard to let go of. To let it go back to bones and briars and...to leave him hanging there.
no subject
he keeps his focus intently on her instead, and this story of hers. he doesn't know the context of sleeping beauty, the story behind her briars and all the symbolism that made itself so obvious in her execution. what it brings into sharp relief instead is why she is the way she is. the tattoo she chose. the way she'd phrased her questions, when he'd returned from the first of these journeys.
he gives her hand a squeeze. rather than a playful bump, he leans forward enough to gently rest his head against the crest of her hair, dodging any rust and thorns. it has the energy of a hound resting its oversized head on someone's knee. ]
...It is difficult to give up on such a dream. [ a pause ] We were forced to do something like that too.
[ lots of common themes going on. ]
It is... remarkably easy to fall for? Tempting. Especially when things are difficult—don't we all find ourselves wishing for something easier? [ simple times. love at first sight. happy endings. ] Still. In this life of hardship, I met you.
So I'm sorry, one prince to another, to the promise of a man you didn't know. But thank you for being here, instead.
no subject
[And she's grateful for the new gesture, too. He's very comforting. You might not imagine it, with his size and taking after a creature of the deep. But they fit quite snugly together, and she's happy for the weight of him, the strength. Too often she feels frail standing on her own. Her fingers flex, find new grip on his palm. Her thumb rubs over the minute scales there, easing down the grain.]
...I think I prefer this too. [She bumps her head up softly, mindful of the briars. Puts her other arm around his back.] Not the way it's happened, but meeting you. Everyone, really, but you've been...very, very kind to me. And you're so much fun, and you're always honest, and you care so deeply for everyone.
It's an honour just to know you, Sidon. [She chuckles, soft and breathless.] My good Prince.
no subject
Likewise, my Princess...! I've rarely met anyone so fearsome in their kindness.
[ then the contented rumbling settles, because—yes. he ought to tell her. ]
In our journey, it was... [ there's a moment's pause, tongue running against the back of his teeth. he is honest, and open, but vulnerability is a different beast. he can usually connect to others without it—it's something he'd rather contain in written word, carefully plucked over. but she wouldn't appreciate something so curated, would she? so he thinks, and recalls. ] I should start from the beginning. Lucien's journal—it is a terrible thing. Never so much as open its cover. It is inhabited by mages, whose influence worked on our minds immediately—we discovered the civilization they'd driven to terror and ruin, and our minds began to slip and turn against one another.
We came upon some of their technology, which created matter from... nothing. Like a god, yet not without a cost. It created a creature from our dreams—the faces of those we loved, or lost. My sister, my friends—you, Shouxue, Viktor. Countless others, amongst all of us.
I could not bring myself to fight it, but— [ he shakes his head ] it gave up fighting. Perhaps this 'dream' of ours simply didn't want to live. Its death, I think, only drove us further into madness.
no subject
The ways that they draw up all our old wounds is just insidious. I can't blame you for not wanting to fight them.
[Taking their forms, taking the shape of his family. What could you be expected to do?]
Still, it's a little sad. Even it couldn't find the will to keep living. [She presses her lips tight.] I'm sorry. That sounds awful, Sidon. You shouldn't have had to see or do any of it.
[Her head turns, just so she might press her nose against him, weld her cheek to his side. His chin stays firm atop her head. She breathes more evenly for it, letting her eyes close.
Dreadful that he had gone. Miraculous that he came back. That she can keep him so close, if not for always then for when it counts the most.]
I hope your head is more clear now. It hasn't lingered at all, has it?