[ of course she didn't do this—what child would? they want to listen to their parents when they're lost. they're not meant to be valiant, or good, or even brave. they're meant to snivel a little and sneak extra mouthfuls of food they like and be a little cruel for no reason, but not so much so that they'd enjoy learning what a knife feels like when it splits skin.
none of this is fit for a child.
he can feel the collar squeeze too tight, and thinks a little absently about whether this is its purpose. he scrabbles out for where the knife should be, where the hilt should be sticking out of his chest, if only to drive it deeper. he's not afraid of killing, when it counts.
but that's not how this history goes. aka i wanna see what really happens and cry ]
[it's not how history goes. and the memory changes again as he struggles against it, and then takes the reins sharply and course corrects.
"Everyone is born with a gift," father says. "The gods bestow us all with a job only we can do. It is our fate. Your gift was wielding a dagger, Throné. If you want to live, you must learn to kill."
you know, as his tone gets a little harsher, that he's reaching the end of his patience. you're not supposed to say no this much. so, you bite your lip, and shake your head to clear it. the dagger in your hand feels familiar, but... you've never used it this way before. not on a person. you know how to slice and dodge and you know where all the best spots on a person are to kill them, but you've never actually done it. until now.
you take a few steps forward. and without a word, you shove it through the whimpering man's throat. he tries to get away from you, and in the seconds that pass you realize he's afraid of you. this doesn't make you feel anything. maybe a little sad. but father said. and you have to. so - you do, and he slides off your blade and gurgles, eyes glazing over. you step back a few times so that the blood doesn't get on your shoes, and you feel a little like crying. you don't, though.
"Very good. Just as I expected," father says breathlessly, moving forward to marvel over your work. you don't realize it now, as a child, but when you're older you'll know that it's obscene, that he found the bloodshed almost erotic. "How was it, my dear?"
you stare down at the body. and you whisper:
"The smell of blood... I hate it."
the memory shifts. something black drips from the corner of father's mouth. and then faster than that - darkness billows from his eyes, his mouth, the wind whipping around the both of you. and then you're not in the sewer. not anymore - no, you're in an old church, seventeen years later, the remains of it broken and rotting. you are facing that same man down, and this time, he's maniacal. he's bleeding from where you've managed to slice at him, and he's cackling.
you hear father scream your name, and you shove a dagger right into his gut, and --
and then, abruptly, without any warning at all, you are thrown out of this memory. and this time, throné is here, standing with a pained expression. but... there's no collar. the real one isn't wearing a collar.]
it makes a terrible sort of sense for a child; he knew even before this that her life was askew, forced to clean to 'earn' the things that other children were given without question. the sound of father's voice makes his skin crawl, even in this strange, out-of-body experience, and then there's the wildness and fear as time grows closer to the present.
a madman made parent. but he doesn't really matter. his gaze settles on her, gaze dropping briefly to her bare neck before he lets out a breath and offers her a hand as he collects himself, emotions and memories and sensations recalibrating after time in the void. ]
[she has to kind of just... figure out how to breathe for a second, working her way through it. she's relived this a few times. it's not new. but even still...
he offers a hand, and she reaches to take it instinctively. there's the sound of something that's almost birdsong, but it's strangled, almost hissing. she can't help that so much, or the scales that crawl up around her fingers.]
... It's alright. [she says finally, swallowing hard.] It's... I'm sorry that you had to experience it.
[bit by bit, taking those emotions and putting them away, compartmentalizing. she's fine.]
Please, there's nothing to apologize for! [ if anything, he wishes he could've changed history for her. ] Why would I ever shy from learning more about a cherished friend?
[ he does something that should be familiar now, which is dropping down to wrap an arm around her in a hug. he doesn't do this nearly so much at home, royal decorum and all, but it seems silly to let that get in the way here. he holds her hand still though, like that might stop the scales from spreading any further up into her palm. ]
You're the one who had to live it in earnest. And... revisit it, here. [ the problem with memory is that it gets a little easier with time, and distance, and new happiness—it isn't repetition that heals a wound. opening a scab again and again doesn't make it easier to close back over. he finds some balance and smiles, small. ] It's something I wish you to be free from, even if memory likes to follow us so closely.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
none of this is fit for a child.
he can feel the collar squeeze too tight, and thinks a little absently about whether this is its purpose. he scrabbles out for where the knife should be, where the hilt should be sticking out of his chest, if only to drive it deeper. he's not afraid of killing, when it counts.
but that's not how this history goes. aka i wanna see what really happens and cry ]
no subject
the memory shifts. something black drips from the corner of father's mouth. and then faster than that - darkness billows from his eyes, his mouth, the wind whipping around the both of you. and then you're not in the sewer. not anymore - no, you're in an old church, seventeen years later, the remains of it broken and rotting. you are facing that same man down, and this time, he's maniacal. he's bleeding from where you've managed to slice at him, and he's cackling.
you hear father scream your name, and you shove a dagger right into his gut, and --
and then, abruptly, without any warning at all, you are thrown out of this memory. and this time, throné is here, standing with a pained expression. but... there's no collar. the real one isn't wearing a collar.]
no subject
it makes a terrible sort of sense for a child; he knew even before this that her life was askew, forced to clean to 'earn' the things that other children were given without question. the sound of father's voice makes his skin crawl, even in this strange, out-of-body experience, and then there's the wildness and fear as time grows closer to the present.
a madman made parent. but he doesn't really matter. his gaze settles on her, gaze dropping briefly to her bare neck before he lets out a breath and offers her a hand as he collects himself, emotions and memories and sensations recalibrating after time in the void. ]
...Sorry to intrude, dear Throné.
no subject
he offers a hand, and she reaches to take it instinctively. there's the sound of something that's almost birdsong, but it's strangled, almost hissing. she can't help that so much, or the scales that crawl up around her fingers.]
... It's alright. [she says finally, swallowing hard.] It's... I'm sorry that you had to experience it.
[bit by bit, taking those emotions and putting them away, compartmentalizing. she's fine.]
no subject
Please, there's nothing to apologize for! [ if anything, he wishes he could've changed history for her. ] Why would I ever shy from learning more about a cherished friend?
[ he does something that should be familiar now, which is dropping down to wrap an arm around her in a hug. he doesn't do this nearly so much at home, royal decorum and all, but it seems silly to let that get in the way here. he holds her hand still though, like that might stop the scales from spreading any further up into her palm. ]
You're the one who had to live it in earnest. And... revisit it, here. [ the problem with memory is that it gets a little easier with time, and distance, and new happiness—it isn't repetition that heals a wound. opening a scab again and again doesn't make it easier to close back over. he finds some balance and smiles, small. ] It's something I wish you to be free from, even if memory likes to follow us so closely.