's right. She's already ripped me a new one. Well deserved, but still. I was able to see all the proceedings.
[ sometimes you probably should get yelled at for some of your behaviours.... it's fine...
that fear makes his worry spike a little - and it makes him mad, too, but it's immediately clear it's protective and indignant, and pushed backwards, because that's likely not what rosamund needs right now, no matter how badly he'd like to give something or someone a piece of his mind in exchange for the horrors she's been through here, ideally with his sword. what he can do instead is be there for her, something he couldn't do just a few days ago.
... ]
... Yeah. Just long enough for me to tell things were wrong. I - [ there's the slightest squirm of grief there, all emotion over logic. i thought i lost you for real. ] - 's why I left so fast. I didn't want to say something I'd regret in the moment.
[ that's one of strohl's better or worse qualities - a big heart makes for a fast temper. he knew better, he knows this likely won't be the end of this, either, he knows that that "control" will likely return, that it'll not be until the day of the trial that things truly smooth out, the same way it had been for him, and if rosamund was conscious of herself, the last thing he'd ever want to do is hurt her. ]
I've had some time to get ahold of the situation, now, and... [ and she's herself, again, even if it's temporary. maybe he can't stop it from happening, but he can be there for support in the face of that fear. so, strohl exhales out, and projects reassurance in his small smile as he offers her his arm.
it'll be okay. maybe not right away, but it'll be okay. ] ...Well. Allow me to escort you there - it'll be a fine place to ride this out, too.
No, no I wouldn't want you talking to her. If I change again, walk away.
[Her own protectiveness comes to the fore, paired with a bitter bite.
There's a memory shared then.
A cold and empty room, built for interrogation, punishment. There's Rosamund as she was after the deal was made, a reanimated corpse of a fifteen year old girl, held together with snaking briars, bright orange eyes on a man in front of her. He begs for his life to be spared, she puts a hand to his cheek. A briar slips out to prick him, and suddenly he's under her thrall.
She asks him why he was a condemned man in the first place, and the answer he gives is less than pleasing.
"I wondered whether I should listen to what they asked of me. And I think that you're afraid, and there isn't much you can do from here. Besides that, the crime you committed could have cost countless people their lives and given power to a devil who doesn't deserve it. I don't like that idea at all.
Tanaka, would you please kill yourself for me?"
The man kneels on the floor, and bashes his head into the ground until he no longer has the strength or life to do it.
In the present she tears herself away from him, gasping and covering her face.]
this is a lot for a memory - it both clarifies things and horrifies. his own adventure - felt like years ago now - was bad, but it doesn't quite compare in sight to this, the reanimation, the voice - the hand on the man's cheek. familiar gesture, wrong person. wrong outcome. wrong everything.
much like he had done with her memory all those weeks ago, he half jukes forward, not to attack or recoil in horror, but to protect. as if anything, anything he could do could fix it, as if there's anything to protect from. (the same way a few hours ago he'd half bolted towards the screens, like he could rush onto that ice rink himself, like he could do something - ) but, she pulls back and he snaps free of the memory too, sucking in a sharp breath and shaking his head to clear the image.
the good news is that visual horror doesn't bother him much. the bad news is that the rest is a lot - emotions of ferocious protectiveness and anger, of horror and something wailingly upset all swirl between them before he slams the door on them the best that he can, letting out a short, shallow breath as he looks at her, eyes wide, searching her face and at a loss entirely for what to say. words like i'm so sorry feel like nothing.
he swallows, and the initial shock slides off his face, replacing with determination. empathetic understanding and compassion. "put me somewhere i can't hurt anyone." "hulkenberg, if it comes down to it, if i lose my mind, i'll attack you, and i trust you to kill me so i can't hurt anyone." a place of similarity, in so many ways.
he exhales out. a hand comes to her back between her shoulders; with her face covered by her hands, the touch is guiding. strohl speaks, finally, voice low, but with all the conviction of a lord; ]
I swear, your highness, I won't let that happen. [ strohl had refused to kill her two weeks ago when she'd asked for an item, because the context made him ill. this - this is different, because here death is a three hour break, and he knows perhaps as intimately as anyone how much it would kill rosamund to harm one of their own out of her hands again. maybe he can't stop thursday night murders. maybe he can't stop her being possessed and attacking his best friend. maybe he can't stop these thursday trips. maybe, here, finally, he has the chance to protect someone he cares for and he'll do everything he can with his two hands to do just that.
and so, projecting those same, focused intentions of protective safety, he will start to lead her away from the gates and off to a different terminal entirely. the thing is, rosamund shouldn't have to be somewhere dark or dank like a dungeon, somewhere locked up like a criminal, but the pillowfort is a bad idea this time of night, and so he reroutes, and he'll lead her off like a bodyguard.
to... a place that smells like open air, and... farmland? a bit? it smells like farmland, if she's still got her face buried in her hands. off to the ranch, which at this time of night is dead quiet. there's no one here but them.
[Sometimes, she loathes being protected. It reminds her of the briars. Her original ones, the kind that loved her so much they'd kill the princes who came for her and keep her sleeping forever. She'd hated when people like Luke had scooped her off her feet, assuming her incapable. Fragile.
Strohl, as he had insisted the very week he died, didn't see her that way. When he jerks forward, when his feelings rise, she can feel the threads of earnesty in them. Her panic hasn't blinded her to them yet. It's because he understands and respects her that he wants to draw her free.
Help her, but she does start crying a little then.]
All right. All right, I'll trust you...
[Even if he can't stop her from shifting, he can hold her back. The briars didn't follow her here. If they had...
She will rise and follow in his shadow, glancing around in fretful curiousity. They don't pass anyone on the way, which is a miracle, and by the time he's found her some secluded place she's come to tentative calm. Stayed right in her head long enough to breathe.]
This isn't so bad. [She doesn't mind the barn smells. Rosamund bites her lip, looking to him.] I don't want to keep you all night, either. If you need to lock me up or something, that's fine, I don't want to make you lose sleep on my part.
[ the ranch is arguably strohl's favourite place on the dead side of things. halia was like this - farmland and green pastures - and it reminds him so very much of home. for a noble, he spent much of his childhood in places like this, learning all the same chores that the people did, sitting on fences and eating strawberries hand picked by neighbours and villagers when they wanted to dote on their little lordling.
it's also a place that's large, and relatively uninhabited, especially at night. a little better to be in wide open fields than a dungeon, he thinks. god knows they're so trapped, all the time.
so. he'll lead her down the pathway and out to the fields, past the fenced in areas with the snoozing hens in the henhouse, on guard but not jumpy, just - determined. that's the main emotion, determination, until they make it to a nice little spot near some trees and a watering hole. strohl sheds his coat as he gets close to the tree, fluffing it out once it's off and laying it down on the ground, then gestures for her to sit.
and when they lock eyes... ]
Hush - I'll have none of that. [ there's a ping of the equivalent of a nose wrinkle, a scoff at the idea that he'd leave - when he glances back at her again, emotions still reflecting worry, it's with a reassuring smile. it is a noble's duty to protect his people. maybe for once, he can do so. ] I'm right where I want to be. Besides, the old adage's what, I'll sleep when I'm dead? So it seems like I'll have plenty of time to do so when I want.
[ that bit's a little lighter, a joke to ease a tiny bit of the tension, and followed up with the most sincere intensity he brings as a strohl da haliaetus; ]
If you place your trust in me, then you have me. Simple as that. [ as he settles down in the dirt, he takes his sword and places it beside himself in close reach, then fiddles around in the bag that hangs off the back for something, leaning back against the tree. ready to get up in a moment, a warrior in his prime, but for now, taking in this very tentative moment of near peace as he tugs a small book out from his bag. ]
[But he's shushed her, and now he's giving that soft and sweet smile of his and she's just too tired to argue any longer. She looks down as he jokes, mouth twisting, to the coat he's laid on the ground. Rosamund sits with a heavy sigh and an unease too deep-rooted to shake. People really are much too considerate of her. Strohl is much too considerate, has been from the start.]
You should sleep anyway though...it's not good to lose too much of it...
[Or get too much.
It's something in the simple strength of that earnesty that drives her to a mad thought, then. He says it so plainly. There's many ways in which Strohl is his own man. Too easily embarrassed, for one, his temper burns fiery hot, and his reasoning is of a man of twenty-some years, not a few hundred. Where he begins to double up in her mind now is that sweet and starkly true sentiment, said without a trace of irony.
She could just about hear the same thing in Sidon's voice.
Her mouth goes dry. She sees (not shares this time, blissfully), the crumpled mess of Sidon's legs from their fall. The way his body had been sectioned into deli counter slices by a force unseen. Rosamund feels her hands tremble and tries to quiet this sudden swell of grief. Her eyes focus on Strohl, blond hair rendered blue in the false moonlight, leaned against a tree and sat in the dirt.
This is the real moment. She needs to focus on here and now. Not the illusion of that other place. She inhales thickly and her eyes catch on the book. Easy enough.]
[ too late! he's not budging. stubborn as a goat, in the end, and he pays little mind to the protest, turning his head to look at her with a more wry smile. ]
...If I'm honest, I can't hardly remember the last night I slept well - magically induced aside. [ thursdays, that is. even then, it doesn't really count, because the force of it doubles the anxiety, puts a twist of it into his emotions, an underlying thread that seems to pulse often through the way he feels. that's what it means, to wield an archetype, to take those things and hold them, wield them not as a breaking point but as a weapon. brave, perhaps. terrifying, often. but still, all the same.
but with that thought aside, he's quietly thumbing through the book - it's only when he feels her shift slightly that he glances over, still on alert in case the control comes back, and concern flickers briefly across his face. unaware of the things she sees, but well aware of the pain she's been through in other manners, he makes a soft noise to shake it, and gently smooths the pages open across his lap so she can see the artwork! ]
This is a book belonging to His Highness that tells tale of a utopia: though it reads often like a guidebook, it's a novel. It ended up in our lounge wrapped up as a present just before I arrived on this side, lucky as that seems. I've seen him read it near a thousand times - in fact, it's become something of a tradition that he shares it with all of us.
[ strohl's voice softens into fondness as he tells of the book, of many nights spent on the gauntlet runner watching will read the same book, listening to him speak of the world he wants to create. he runs a thumb over the edge of the book, and then lifts his head again, briefly searching her face, brows knit together still in clear concern, but there's something softer to the edge of it, as he falters just a little. it's boyish, something just the side of uncertain, though for reasons unknown. worry, sincere and open, that perhaps it's not enough, that the depths of her grief and hurt from her experience are insurmountable. a weight of conversation carried from a long day, a long few hours, the strange and jarring sensation of another loss that seemed near permanent.
... but - still, he carries on. ]
I thought it might make a fine distraction, if nothing else - that perhaps we might read together, for a little while.
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no subject
[ sometimes you probably should get yelled at for some of your behaviours.... it's fine...
that fear makes his worry spike a little - and it makes him mad, too, but it's immediately clear it's protective and indignant, and pushed backwards, because that's likely not what rosamund needs right now, no matter how badly he'd like to give something or someone a piece of his mind in exchange for the horrors she's been through here, ideally with his sword. what he can do instead is be there for her, something he couldn't do just a few days ago.
... ]
... Yeah. Just long enough for me to tell things were wrong. I - [ there's the slightest squirm of grief there, all emotion over logic. i thought i lost you for real. ] - 's why I left so fast. I didn't want to say something I'd regret in the moment.
[ that's one of strohl's better or worse qualities - a big heart makes for a fast temper. he knew better, he knows this likely won't be the end of this, either, he knows that that "control" will likely return, that it'll not be until the day of the trial that things truly smooth out, the same way it had been for him, and if rosamund was conscious of herself, the last thing he'd ever want to do is hurt her. ]
I've had some time to get ahold of the situation, now, and... [ and she's herself, again, even if it's temporary. maybe he can't stop it from happening, but he can be there for support in the face of that fear. so, strohl exhales out, and projects reassurance in his small smile as he offers her his arm.
it'll be okay. maybe not right away, but it'll be okay. ] ...Well. Allow me to escort you there - it'll be a fine place to ride this out, too.
CW: suicide
[Her own protectiveness comes to the fore, paired with a bitter bite.
There's a memory shared then.
A cold and empty room, built for interrogation, punishment. There's Rosamund as she was after the deal was made, a reanimated corpse of a fifteen year old girl, held together with snaking briars, bright orange eyes on a man in front of her. He begs for his life to be spared, she puts a hand to his cheek. A briar slips out to prick him, and suddenly he's under her thrall.
She asks him why he was a condemned man in the first place, and the answer he gives is less than pleasing.
"I wondered whether I should listen to what they asked of me. And I think that you're afraid, and there isn't much you can do from here. Besides that, the crime you committed could have cost countless people their lives and given power to a devil who doesn't deserve it. I don't like that idea at all.
Tanaka, would you please kill yourself for me?"
The man kneels on the floor, and bashes his head into the ground until he no longer has the strength or life to do it.
In the present she tears herself away from him, gasping and covering her face.]
...Put me somewhere I can't hurt anyone.
no subject
this is a lot for a memory - it both clarifies things and horrifies. his own adventure - felt like years ago now - was bad, but it doesn't quite compare in sight to this, the reanimation, the voice - the hand on the man's cheek. familiar gesture, wrong person. wrong outcome. wrong everything.
much like he had done with her memory all those weeks ago, he half jukes forward, not to attack or recoil in horror, but to protect. as if anything, anything he could do could fix it, as if there's anything to protect from. (the same way a few hours ago he'd half bolted towards the screens, like he could rush onto that ice rink himself, like he could do something - ) but, she pulls back and he snaps free of the memory too, sucking in a sharp breath and shaking his head to clear the image.
the good news is that visual horror doesn't bother him much. the bad news is that the rest is a lot - emotions of ferocious protectiveness and anger, of horror and something wailingly upset all swirl between them before he slams the door on them the best that he can, letting out a short, shallow breath as he looks at her, eyes wide, searching her face and at a loss entirely for what to say. words like i'm so sorry feel like nothing.
he swallows, and the initial shock slides off his face, replacing with determination. empathetic understanding and compassion. "put me somewhere i can't hurt anyone." "hulkenberg, if it comes down to it, if i lose my mind, i'll attack you, and i trust you to kill me so i can't hurt anyone." a place of similarity, in so many ways.
he exhales out. a hand comes to her back between her shoulders; with her face covered by her hands, the touch is guiding. strohl speaks, finally, voice low, but with all the conviction of a lord; ]
I swear, your highness, I won't let that happen. [ strohl had refused to kill her two weeks ago when she'd asked for an item, because the context made him ill. this - this is different, because here death is a three hour break, and he knows perhaps as intimately as anyone how much it would kill rosamund to harm one of their own out of her hands again. maybe he can't stop thursday night murders. maybe he can't stop her being possessed and attacking his best friend. maybe he can't stop these thursday trips. maybe, here, finally, he has the chance to protect someone he cares for and he'll do everything he can with his two hands to do just that.
and so, projecting those same, focused intentions of protective safety, he will start to lead her away from the gates and off to a different terminal entirely. the thing is, rosamund shouldn't have to be somewhere dark or dank like a dungeon, somewhere locked up like a criminal, but the pillowfort is a bad idea this time of night, and so he reroutes, and he'll lead her off like a bodyguard.
to... a place that smells like open air, and... farmland? a bit? it smells like farmland, if she's still got her face buried in her hands. off to the ranch, which at this time of night is dead quiet. there's no one here but them.
and the farm animals, but that's fine. ]
no subject
Strohl, as he had insisted the very week he died, didn't see her that way. When he jerks forward, when his feelings rise, she can feel the threads of earnesty in them. Her panic hasn't blinded her to them yet. It's because he understands and respects her that he wants to draw her free.
Help her, but she does start crying a little then.]
All right. All right, I'll trust you...
[Even if he can't stop her from shifting, he can hold her back. The briars didn't follow her here. If they had...
She will rise and follow in his shadow, glancing around in fretful curiousity. They don't pass anyone on the way, which is a miracle, and by the time he's found her some secluded place she's come to tentative calm. Stayed right in her head long enough to breathe.]
This isn't so bad. [She doesn't mind the barn smells. Rosamund bites her lip, looking to him.] I don't want to keep you all night, either. If you need to lock me up or something, that's fine, I don't want to make you lose sleep on my part.
no subject
it's also a place that's large, and relatively uninhabited, especially at night. a little better to be in wide open fields than a dungeon, he thinks. god knows they're so trapped, all the time.
so. he'll lead her down the pathway and out to the fields, past the fenced in areas with the snoozing hens in the henhouse, on guard but not jumpy, just - determined. that's the main emotion, determination, until they make it to a nice little spot near some trees and a watering hole. strohl sheds his coat as he gets close to the tree, fluffing it out once it's off and laying it down on the ground, then gestures for her to sit.
and when they lock eyes... ]
Hush - I'll have none of that. [ there's a ping of the equivalent of a nose wrinkle, a scoff at the idea that he'd leave - when he glances back at her again, emotions still reflecting worry, it's with a reassuring smile. it is a noble's duty to protect his people. maybe for once, he can do so. ] I'm right where I want to be. Besides, the old adage's what, I'll sleep when I'm dead? So it seems like I'll have plenty of time to do so when I want.
[ that bit's a little lighter, a joke to ease a tiny bit of the tension, and followed up with the most sincere intensity he brings as a strohl da haliaetus; ]
If you place your trust in me, then you have me. Simple as that. [ as he settles down in the dirt, he takes his sword and places it beside himself in close reach, then fiddles around in the bag that hangs off the back for something, leaning back against the tree. ready to get up in a moment, a warrior in his prime, but for now, taking in this very tentative moment of near peace as he tugs a small book out from his bag. ]
no subject
[But he's shushed her, and now he's giving that soft and sweet smile of his and she's just too tired to argue any longer. She looks down as he jokes, mouth twisting, to the coat he's laid on the ground. Rosamund sits with a heavy sigh and an unease too deep-rooted to shake. People really are much too considerate of her. Strohl is much too considerate, has been from the start.]
You should sleep anyway though...it's not good to lose too much of it...
[Or get too much.
It's something in the simple strength of that earnesty that drives her to a mad thought, then. He says it so plainly. There's many ways in which Strohl is his own man. Too easily embarrassed, for one, his temper burns fiery hot, and his reasoning is of a man of twenty-some years, not a few hundred. Where he begins to double up in her mind now is that sweet and starkly true sentiment, said without a trace of irony.
She could just about hear the same thing in Sidon's voice.
Her mouth goes dry. She sees (not shares this time, blissfully), the crumpled mess of Sidon's legs from their fall. The way his body had been sectioned into deli counter slices by a force unseen. Rosamund feels her hands tremble and tries to quiet this sudden swell of grief. Her eyes focus on Strohl, blond hair rendered blue in the false moonlight, leaned against a tree and sat in the dirt.
This is the real moment. She needs to focus on here and now. Not the illusion of that other place. She inhales thickly and her eyes catch on the book. Easy enough.]
What's that?
no subject
...If I'm honest, I can't hardly remember the last night I slept well - magically induced aside. [ thursdays, that is. even then, it doesn't really count, because the force of it doubles the anxiety, puts a twist of it into his emotions, an underlying thread that seems to pulse often through the way he feels. that's what it means, to wield an archetype, to take those things and hold them, wield them not as a breaking point but as a weapon. brave, perhaps. terrifying, often. but still, all the same.
but with that thought aside, he's quietly thumbing through the book - it's only when he feels her shift slightly that he glances over, still on alert in case the control comes back, and concern flickers briefly across his face. unaware of the things she sees, but well aware of the pain she's been through in other manners, he makes a soft noise to shake it, and gently smooths the pages open across his lap so she can see the artwork! ]
This is a book belonging to His Highness that tells tale of a utopia: though it reads often like a guidebook, it's a novel. It ended up in our lounge wrapped up as a present just before I arrived on this side, lucky as that seems. I've seen him read it near a thousand times - in fact, it's become something of a tradition that he shares it with all of us.
[ strohl's voice softens into fondness as he tells of the book, of many nights spent on the gauntlet runner watching will read the same book, listening to him speak of the world he wants to create. he runs a thumb over the edge of the book, and then lifts his head again, briefly searching her face, brows knit together still in clear concern, but there's something softer to the edge of it, as he falters just a little. it's boyish, something just the side of uncertain, though for reasons unknown. worry, sincere and open, that perhaps it's not enough, that the depths of her grief and hurt from her experience are insurmountable. a weight of conversation carried from a long day, a long few hours, the strange and jarring sensation of another loss that seemed near permanent.
... but - still, he carries on. ]
I thought it might make a fine distraction, if nothing else - that perhaps we might read together, for a little while.