[At some point, she will actively seek him out. For real. She's still looking no better than earlier. She hasn't changed and she hasn't tided herself up much, though her cheeks are clear and her hands are washed after handling Kaworu.
Wherever she finds him in this fine void she will stop a reasonable distance away. Expression despondent, but resigned. She bows her head in greeting. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks.]
I...wondered if you might want a more clear-headed conversation. Now that I can think straight.
[ the way i was like oh i need to write kabby a starter (looks up) anyway im an idiot
sweet baby. that despondent expression says the world, honestly, and - though he pauses, the expression that flashes across his face is complicated, but it mostly falls on concern. worry.
he inhales, and dips his head in return. ]
...I'd like that very much, but - come. Let's sit, and get you some water, first.
It was heaven. Where Anders and Kaworu are from. And Siffrin and Jacopo. Jonas...only he wasn't called Jonas there.
[She looks to her hands. Realizes she's been pressing into the bandaged nailbeds, as if the sting might steel her through this. She ceases at once.]
And that's the strangest part. I remembered so much of it. Things I couldn't possibly know. The people in it. Like, a bubbly woman with pink hair, her name was...it started with an E? And there was a very small swordsperson who loved to eat all the time, with the loveliest golden eyes, and there was a tavern where the people liked to eat and stay at when Thursdays came...
[...]
Oh I'm babbling. I'm babbling, right? Sorry. That's not the important part. Just that I was completely delusional.
well, he's heard tale of the latter - the tavern. basilio and fidelio's, even. (another lost soul he fights for, one outside of his original purview.) the feeling of loss curls heavy in his chest, like a vicegrip. grief. just another thing he could lose.
he doesn't stop listening, though she'll see that his foot starts to tap, jittering out his energy. ]
Not that strange. Boothill did the same.
[ ...
if she looks away, she'll see his tattoo of the week again; present on his forearm, ink through yellow fabric. Losing it all again. ]
... Why her?
[ even, but there's - plaintive hurt like a plucked chord that he tries to cover. ]
[the way i was like BWUH until i remembered they are all metaphors.....
She catches the sound of his foot tapping. There's a flicker of shame on her face, but he does cut to the crux of the matter soon after that. Rosamund's face draws pale again, and she just barely resists the urge to turn away. Cover her face, bite her lip, anything to draw herself a little bit out of the moment.
Because she can't decide what is the crueller answer. There's only one she has of course, but all the same. She wonders.]
...I didn't choose anybody. [No name had entered her mind. No idea had festered all week, consciously or otherwise. She can't explain why, save for the simple truth.] I just grabbed a weapon, and looked for the first person I could find awake.
that's even worse, somehow. random, awful, bad luck. his throat clicks - he looks down at his hands. the words stay, like a brand. she already knows the unfortunate horrors of the timing, the catastrophic amount of grief.
there's no real reaction, beyond that agitation and the evenness in his voice, though it hits a bump somewhere in the middle. it's not anger, but it's grief. ]
And you were out of your mind that entire time. Start to finish, until today.
[oh, but it could crack a heart in two. It's the worst look of all. There's nowhere to take all this anger, this grief. He could take it out on her. Very justifiably, it was still these hands that pulled the trigger, that held her down in the thick soup, that wrestled and ripped and scratched (her nails surge with pain and she is glad for it, glad to have the sight of them and their telltale embellishments gone), and took the end of the gun and cracked the bone of her fine face until it was a wretched mess.
It makes her sick. It should make him sick, looking at her, speaking with her. Maybe Vi feels sick looking at them, together when she's so far apart.
His tattoo stays. A new one blooms on her own skin. PUPPET ON STRINGS.]
During trial too, it was like...I felt justified in what I did, and that I would never confess under any circumstance. I wouldn't have said anything no matter what happened.
[She feels nauseous a moment. Too weak to face him head on after all. Rosamund hangs her head and grips her knees tight, voice growing tight. As if she has a right to be upset. He's the one who's truly mourning, who's been wronged. He should never have been made to comfort the wretched....the bitch that killed his dear friend.]
...You can still hate me. It's okay. [It's the only recourse she can offer, really.] I'm the only face you can put to this right now. And it was my mind, my body. Me. I did this to her. Possession or not, you can feel whatever way you want to feel about me, Strohl. I couldn't ask you to give me any grace. Any exceptions.
I'm sorry. It may feel small and cheap to say, but it is the very least I can give you. That I'm sorry, and that it's okay if you're angry with me. It's only natural, to despise the things that cause you pain.
[ this tag was so lovely i was like i have to respond to it in the morning to actually do it justice
it takes him a long moment to look up from his hands when she's speaking, from the jittering movement that feels necessary, the only way to keep his energy in check, to try and pull his emotions all together. because that's the thing. it wasn't on purpose. just like with halia. it wasn't personal. it wasn't chosen for any reason except bad luck and prime location. no one had any grudge against the count and the family. and rosamund liked vi. loved vi. but out of her mind, out of everything, the damage took hold.
his hands curl into fists as she speaks, but its for himself. white crescents in his palms, maelstrom of misery - and it's only as she addresses him by name that he does finally glance over.
silence ticks by. one beat. two. ]
It's the bastards who run this place who're the enemy. [ he says, first - roughly, out of his mouth quicker than he's ready for, full of vitriol, because it is. just like with klinger, it was louis who ruined everything, from his high seat above while klinger did his dirty work. (work he chose to do for his own reasons, cruelty for cruelty's sake. louis, who chose for his own reasons - just like wis'adel, reasons that were to save a world by destroying a part of his. selfish.
but rosamund's not quite like that.
he takes a deep breath - clearly, clearly holding onto his composure. strohl's voice is low and unhappy, the gravity of a nobleman, but the initial anger dies down. ] I meant what I said last night. But don't get me wrong - I'm not as magnanimous as His Highness, and I've no intention of forgiving you anytime soon.
[ another deep breath. ]
However. I'll not stand for anyone harming you, or aiming for retribution towards you, either. [ ... ] I don't hate you, your highness. And I expect that you'll be doing all in your power to tear this place down as we make our way forward - if that slips, if that halts for even a second, then I'll be far, far less gracious. I don't think it will.
[ she was already pretty determined to in the first place - just like him. something they agreed on, early on. that makes it hurt, too, because he likes rosamund a lot. her verve, her strength, the familiar vibes of a deep and noble passion for others, and that makes it even worse. he knows vi liked her, too.
there's another long pause, and he looks at her. intense, still, but in a different light. ]
It takes courage to own up to what we've done. You could've walked away and never spoken to either of us again, but you didn't. I respect that.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
W1 SUNDAY
Wherever she finds him in this fine void she will stop a reasonable distance away. Expression despondent, but resigned. She bows her head in greeting. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks.]
I...wondered if you might want a more clear-headed conversation. Now that I can think straight.
no subject
sweet baby. that despondent expression says the world, honestly, and - though he pauses, the expression that flashes across his face is complicated, but it mostly falls on concern. worry.
he inhales, and dips his head in return. ]
...I'd like that very much, but - come. Let's sit, and get you some water, first.
no subject
[But she will sit. Apprehensive, shooting him a glance as if stolen looks will decipher the strangeness of his expression.
But she remembers the tightness of his hand on his blade, the tension under her palms, and she wonders if it's such a mystery after all.]
So. I'll leave the questions to you, if you have them.
no subject
...I take it its gone, now. Whatever took you over. [ ... ] Have you any idea where it came from? What it felt like?
[ these questions are easier than the bigger one, so he'll start there, toeing into the water. ]
no subject
Before that, I thought that I was...it was so strange. I believed I'd been in a different game entirely before this.
no subject
[ so that's going to continue.... ] Which?
no subject
It was heaven. Where Anders and Kaworu are from. And Siffrin and Jacopo. Jonas...only he wasn't called Jonas there.
[She looks to her hands. Realizes she's been pressing into the bandaged nailbeds, as if the sting might steel her through this. She ceases at once.]
And that's the strangest part. I remembered so much of it. Things I couldn't possibly know. The people in it. Like, a bubbly woman with pink hair, her name was...it started with an E? And there was a very small swordsperson who loved to eat all the time, with the loveliest golden eyes, and there was a tavern where the people liked to eat and stay at when Thursdays came...
[...]
Oh I'm babbling. I'm babbling, right? Sorry. That's not the important part. Just that I was completely delusional.
no subject
well, he's heard tale of the latter - the tavern. basilio and fidelio's, even. (another lost soul he fights for, one outside of his original purview.) the feeling of loss curls heavy in his chest, like a vicegrip. grief. just another thing he could lose.
he doesn't stop listening, though she'll see that his foot starts to tap, jittering out his energy. ]
Not that strange. Boothill did the same.
[ ...
if she looks away, she'll see his tattoo of the week again; present on his forearm, ink through yellow fabric. Losing it all again. ]
... Why her?
[ even, but there's - plaintive hurt like a plucked chord that he tries to cover. ]
no subject
She catches the sound of his foot tapping. There's a flicker of shame on her face, but he does cut to the crux of the matter soon after that. Rosamund's face draws pale again, and she just barely resists the urge to turn away. Cover her face, bite her lip, anything to draw herself a little bit out of the moment.
Because she can't decide what is the crueller answer. There's only one she has of course, but all the same. She wonders.]
...I didn't choose anybody. [No name had entered her mind. No idea had festered all week, consciously or otherwise. She can't explain why, save for the simple truth.] I just grabbed a weapon, and looked for the first person I could find awake.
no subject
that's even worse, somehow. random, awful, bad luck. his throat clicks - he looks down at his hands. the words stay, like a brand. she already knows the unfortunate horrors of the timing, the catastrophic amount of grief.
there's no real reaction, beyond that agitation and the evenness in his voice, though it hits a bump somewhere in the middle. it's not anger, but it's grief. ]
And you were out of your mind that entire time. Start to finish, until today.
no subject
[oh, but it could crack a heart in two. It's the worst look of all. There's nowhere to take all this anger, this grief. He could take it out on her. Very justifiably, it was still these hands that pulled the trigger, that held her down in the thick soup, that wrestled and ripped and scratched (her nails surge with pain and she is glad for it, glad to have the sight of them and their telltale embellishments gone), and took the end of the gun and cracked the bone of her fine face until it was a wretched mess.
It makes her sick. It should make him sick, looking at her, speaking with her. Maybe Vi feels sick looking at them, together when she's so far apart.
His tattoo stays. A new one blooms on her own skin. PUPPET ON STRINGS.]
During trial too, it was like...I felt justified in what I did, and that I would never confess under any circumstance. I wouldn't have said anything no matter what happened.
[She feels nauseous a moment. Too weak to face him head on after all. Rosamund hangs her head and grips her knees tight, voice growing tight. As if she has a right to be upset. He's the one who's truly mourning, who's been wronged. He should never have been made to comfort the wretched....the bitch that killed his dear friend.]
...You can still hate me. It's okay. [It's the only recourse she can offer, really.] I'm the only face you can put to this right now. And it was my mind, my body. Me. I did this to her. Possession or not, you can feel whatever way you want to feel about me, Strohl. I couldn't ask you to give me any grace. Any exceptions.
I'm sorry. It may feel small and cheap to say, but it is the very least I can give you. That I'm sorry, and that it's okay if you're angry with me. It's only natural, to despise the things that cause you pain.
no subject
it takes him a long moment to look up from his hands when she's speaking, from the jittering movement that feels necessary, the only way to keep his energy in check, to try and pull his emotions all together. because that's the thing. it wasn't on purpose. just like with halia. it wasn't personal. it wasn't chosen for any reason except bad luck and prime location. no one had any grudge against the count and the family. and rosamund liked vi. loved vi. but out of her mind, out of everything, the damage took hold.
his hands curl into fists as she speaks, but its for himself. white crescents in his palms, maelstrom of misery - and it's only as she addresses him by name that he does finally glance over.
silence ticks by. one beat. two. ]
It's the bastards who run this place who're the enemy. [ he says, first - roughly, out of his mouth quicker than he's ready for, full of vitriol, because it is. just like with klinger, it was louis who ruined everything, from his high seat above while klinger did his dirty work. (work he chose to do for his own reasons, cruelty for cruelty's sake. louis, who chose for his own reasons - just like wis'adel, reasons that were to save a world by destroying a part of his. selfish.
but rosamund's not quite like that.
he takes a deep breath - clearly, clearly holding onto his composure. strohl's voice is low and unhappy, the gravity of a nobleman, but the initial anger dies down. ] I meant what I said last night. But don't get me wrong - I'm not as magnanimous as His Highness, and I've no intention of forgiving you anytime soon.
[ another deep breath. ]
However. I'll not stand for anyone harming you, or aiming for retribution towards you, either. [ ... ] I don't hate you, your highness. And I expect that you'll be doing all in your power to tear this place down as we make our way forward - if that slips, if that halts for even a second, then I'll be far, far less gracious. I don't think it will.
[ she was already pretty determined to in the first place - just like him. something they agreed on, early on. that makes it hurt, too, because he likes rosamund a lot. her verve, her strength, the familiar vibes of a deep and noble passion for others, and that makes it even worse. he knows vi liked her, too.
there's another long pause, and he looks at her. intense, still, but in a different light. ]
It takes courage to own up to what we've done. You could've walked away and never spoken to either of us again, but you didn't. I respect that.