No need to apologize! These are just dangerous, typically... Or rather, I can never tell when they'll be dangerous to others when they show up in things like this.
[Because this happens SO OFTEN... He'll hold her hand, though, making his careful way through the flowers. There's a little path that cuts through, so they can walk without stepping on any - and he's cautious not to.]
...It is, most likely. Or at least, this cliffside is one I'm very familiar with.
[Which, speaking of: though the sun was only just hanging a few feet above the horizon, it starts to set at an unnaturally fast clip, entirely set in just seconds. Overhead, the clouds scatter, and a big, full moon hangs over them.
The scent of the ocean also mingles with something more acrid. She's probably familiar with the iron tang of blood by now.]
[It's a simple answer despite what it means, but Dahut - whose free hand has been resting against his stomach - shifts to hold his stomach more fully and hunches just the tiniest bit, like he's reluctant to press on despite continuing to do so.
There's a figure in the swaying flowers up ahead, lying prone among them. The scent of blood in this area is so heavy and thick that it's enough to make anyone with a weaker stomach gag. Dahut's steps slow, contrasting the reaction of someone who's normally prone to throwing himself into dangerous situations to help others who need it.]
[This queasy move doesn't escape her notice. She gently puts a hand to Dahut's back, rubbing if he's receptive to it.
She's not easily quailed by violence or gore. It's more the emotion behind it that balks her — hence her frequent outbursts at executions, the least fair battles she's ever witnessed. When it's a body, it's just a body.
Which is what it looks like they'll find today. When he slows she looks down at him, considering him carefully.]
I can go ahead alone if you prefer. You don't have to look again, not if you don't want to.
[He doesn't seem to mind the gesture, at least, even though he still seems a bit stiff rather than warming into the touch of others as he normally does.
There's a moment of quiet at the suggestion, though it's not because he's thinking over his answer. Rather, it seems at first like he might not have even heard it, his gaze firmly fixed on the figure. It seems perfectly still, so maybe she's right - a body, just a body.
But eventually, he shakes his head and slips his hand away from hers.]
I have to look, every time. [Penance, maybe. A sense of duty. Even if it isn't real, how could he just leave things like this? Then, softly:] You can wait here, if you'd like. I don't want to burden you.
[But he won't stop her if she decides to follow along as he steps away from the little trail and into the flowers. She'll just have to take care; the carpet of them is thick, though many have already been snapped and flattened as they draw closer.]
It's not a burden. [She lets her hand still, but it remains as will she.] I'd rather be here with you than leave you alone.
[It's not something he would enjoy sharing, of course. She suspects the point of these rifts is to peel back your layers and show your guts to whoever was strung along with you. She might not have a choice in looking either.
So they move together. She treads as carefully as she can. It's something she's used to, forests and greenery were her terrain. The blossoms may be odd and overgrown but she takes the trampled path, moving slow after Dahut.
[she came back from her facial so quickly...! But through the flowers they go, careful as can be. Though the one she picked earlier didn't seem to have an effect, there's a thin black miasma hanging in the air here with how many have been crushed or snapped. She might find that it's harder to breathe, that there's a tickle in the back of her throat urging her to cough even more than the thick smell of blood.
As they approach, she'll be able to get a good look at the figure: it's the body of a young woman dressed in resplendent royal silks, torn to shreds and dyed such a deep red that it looks as black as the flowers under the moonlight. Her beautiful dusty brown hair is streaked with blood, her arms and legs bent at painful-looking angles, as though god discarded her here like a broken doll. She's covered in violent injuries and her eyes stare half-lidded and unseeing into the night sky.
Then, her mouth just barely moves.
Liam... My sweet boy, is that you...?
The way he literally just got done scolding Scien about entertaining these hallucinations, but what else can he do? He immediately moves to kneel by her side, reaching for her cold and bloody hand, everything about him so openly tender.]
Yes - it's me, Mother. I've come to see you and I've brought a wonderful friend along with me... She's kind enough to come all this way.
[There's a polite clearing of her throat, as soft and silent as she can manage. Illusion or not, she can feel the pollen trickling into her lungs with a pungent threat. Are Relievers immune to such things?
This isn't the time to ask. There's a woman here, abandoned. Left for dead more like. Rosamund's heart sinks the second she lays eyes on her, barely restraining herself from rushing to her side. It's not real, she reminds herself, taking in the splayed limbs and the sour blood, there's nothing that can be changed here.
Dahut has no such qualms. He's at her side at once, with such open emotion that it shocks her. Yes his heart had been purposefully expanded, but she's had it impressed upon her time and again that they are not at all the same. The capacity isn't there for love.
Then what do you call this?]
Hello. [Rosamund looks to Dahut apprehensively, then kneels at his side. She brushes some of the hair out of the woman's face. "Mother." Literally, or figuratively? And why was she calling him "Liam?"] I'm Rosamund. Your Liam is a...a lovely boy.
[As Rosamund is wondering about a Reliver's ability to breathe among the lycoris, Dahut clears his throat, too, in the same stilted and quiet way of someone trying not to be noticed. No one in Arpéchéle is immune, after all - not even Scien.
He doesn't seem at all bothered by it, though. Rather, it's like he doesn't even notice. His gaze is fixed so wholly on this battered woman that it's a miracle he's even thinking to include Rosamund in this mess at all, but he does seem to stay aware of her throughout.
The woman reaches up with her other hand - or tries to, and fails, and Dahut catches that one too and leans down so she can place her bloodied palm on his cheek.
You've made... a friend? How lovely... She wheezes out her words with rattling lungs. Despite the pain she must be in, she carries on like this is a normal conversation and she isn't bleeding out in a poisonous field. She turns her cloudy gaze toward Rosamund.
How wonderful to meet... you, madamemoiselle... What a kind young woman... She looks, maybe, like she's trying for a smile, but doesn't even seem to have the strength for that. As if saying what anyone in this situation would think, gravely but with apology: There is nothing more that can be done... And then, to Dahut: Oh, my darling Liam... I'll leave the rest to you... Never forget that your mother loves you so very, very much...]
Of course, I never will. I'll always remember. I love you, too, Mother...
[She gives his cheek one gentle, shaky stroke and then seems to still, and he just sits there unmoving, too, even with the press of miasma growing more potent with every second. Rosamund might taste iron in her mouth soon enough.]
[It's difficult to take in. Rosamund's eyes are watering both from the deathly pollen and the way this woman makes her pleas.
She doesn't dare interrupt now. These last words are wasted on her, illusion or not. Her eyes go to Dahut. A sweet, gentle boy, no matter how unusual or long-lived, sitting on the ground, watching a woman who he calls mother fade away.
There's wetness at her cheeks soon. She averts her eyes for the last. It's too private. Too terrible to take from him, not in this sense. When the quiet lingers after her breath halts, Rosamund can taste it. Blood, all in the back of her throat.
She suppresses a cough. Instead her hand returns to Dahut's back, rubbing slow.]
[He knows he has to go - that they both have to go. His throat and lungs feel thick with the toxin, and he can't help but cough, too. But it's always so hard to let go of her hand.
At least he's well-aware of the fact that it's an illusion this time. The hand at his back and gentle words are enough to draw him away, and he gently sets his mother's hand over her chest and draws her eyelids shut.]
...Thank you, Mademoiselle Rosamund. Even after all these years, it's still... well. Some things don't go away with time, I guess.
[But he'll cough into his hand after that, give his mother's body one last stare, and then rise to stand. With his non-bloody hand, he'll reach back out for one of hers.]
[How could it? The loss of family was knife that could never be dislodged. That wound may close over but blade stays snapped off within, gutting you anew when you twist just the right way.
She takes his hand, searching his eyes. If he'll let her, if he'll look at him. She'll take the lead now with a nod and soft steps forward.]
I should hope it is.
[Let him rest. That's enough for one day.
As they walk the scene evaporates, and they are back in the dank air of the Helly Belly. At once she breathes easier, though her chest remains taught and stinging.]
[He'll let her, and he looks back, but it's hard to read much in his expression beyond the fading vestiges of that tender emotion and a weariness that belies his true age.]
Thank you. [THEY'RE FREE THOUGH YIPPEE. Back in the Helly Belly and so glad for it... What a time to be alive. Or undead. It's fine. He gives her hand a little squeeze, clearing his throat from the last lingering feeling of lycoris poison. A beat as he considers, and then:]
She was assassinated by the rest of our family and left in that field. I was around five at the time, so it's been quite a while.
Also that's such a mood! He's constantly appalled by his own terrible family! His shoulders raise into a sloping shrug.]
People do horrible things when the opportunity to grab power presents itself. I was my mother's only child and my father died when I was just a baby, but our family is fairly large and full of very ravenous people.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
OURS! NO ONE ELSE'S!!!!!
Sorry!
[They're just so unusual? Perhaps that was the first sign they should not be trusted.]
...All right. [She nods slowly. Her first steps are cautious, and she'll reach for the boy's hand as they go.]
I take it this is something from your past?
BUNNYKICKS THE REST AWAY
[Because this happens SO OFTEN... He'll hold her hand, though, making his careful way through the flowers. There's a little path that cuts through, so they can walk without stepping on any - and he's cautious not to.]
...It is, most likely. Or at least, this cliffside is one I'm very familiar with.
[Which, speaking of: though the sun was only just hanging a few feet above the horizon, it starts to set at an unnaturally fast clip, entirely set in just seconds. Overhead, the clouds scatter, and a big, full moon hangs over them.
The scent of the ocean also mingles with something more acrid. She's probably familiar with the iron tang of blood by now.]
no subject
[No picking them, absolutely.
The scent does hit her nostrils with a sharp urgency. Rosamund straightens, scanning for the source.]
There's blood. Is someone hurt?
[Or worse.]
no subject
[It's a simple answer despite what it means, but Dahut - whose free hand has been resting against his stomach - shifts to hold his stomach more fully and hunches just the tiniest bit, like he's reluctant to press on despite continuing to do so.
There's a figure in the swaying flowers up ahead, lying prone among them. The scent of blood in this area is so heavy and thick that it's enough to make anyone with a weaker stomach gag. Dahut's steps slow, contrasting the reaction of someone who's normally prone to throwing himself into dangerous situations to help others who need it.]
no subject
She's not easily quailed by violence or gore. It's more the emotion behind it that balks her — hence her frequent outbursts at executions, the least fair battles she's ever witnessed. When it's a body, it's just a body.
Which is what it looks like they'll find today. When he slows she looks down at him, considering him carefully.]
I can go ahead alone if you prefer. You don't have to look again, not if you don't want to.
no subject
There's a moment of quiet at the suggestion, though it's not because he's thinking over his answer. Rather, it seems at first like he might not have even heard it, his gaze firmly fixed on the figure. It seems perfectly still, so maybe she's right - a body, just a body.
But eventually, he shakes his head and slips his hand away from hers.]
I have to look, every time. [Penance, maybe. A sense of duty. Even if it isn't real, how could he just leave things like this? Then, softly:] You can wait here, if you'd like. I don't want to burden you.
[But he won't stop her if she decides to follow along as he steps away from the little trail and into the flowers. She'll just have to take care; the carpet of them is thick, though many have already been snapped and flattened as they draw closer.]
no subject
[It's not something he would enjoy sharing, of course. She suspects the point of these rifts is to peel back your layers and show your guts to whoever was strung along with you. She might not have a choice in looking either.
So they move together. She treads as carefully as she can. It's something she's used to, forests and greenery were her terrain. The blossoms may be odd and overgrown but she takes the trampled path, moving slow after Dahut.
She looks to the bloodied mess ahead.]
no subject
As they approach, she'll be able to get a good look at the figure: it's the body of a young woman dressed in resplendent royal silks, torn to shreds and dyed such a deep red that it looks as black as the flowers under the moonlight. Her beautiful dusty brown hair is streaked with blood, her arms and legs bent at painful-looking angles, as though god discarded her here like a broken doll. She's covered in violent injuries and her eyes stare half-lidded and unseeing into the night sky.
Then, her mouth just barely moves.
Liam... My sweet boy, is that you...?
The way he literally just got done scolding Scien about entertaining these hallucinations, but what else can he do? He immediately moves to kneel by her side, reaching for her cold and bloody hand, everything about him so openly tender.]
Yes - it's me, Mother. I've come to see you and I've brought a wonderful friend along with me... She's kind enough to come all this way.
no subject
This isn't the time to ask. There's a woman here, abandoned. Left for dead more like. Rosamund's heart sinks the second she lays eyes on her, barely restraining herself from rushing to her side. It's not real, she reminds herself, taking in the splayed limbs and the sour blood, there's nothing that can be changed here.
Dahut has no such qualms. He's at her side at once, with such open emotion that it shocks her. Yes his heart had been purposefully expanded, but she's had it impressed upon her time and again that they are not at all the same. The capacity isn't there for love.
Then what do you call this?]
Hello. [Rosamund looks to Dahut apprehensively, then kneels at his side. She brushes some of the hair out of the woman's face. "Mother." Literally, or figuratively? And why was she calling him "Liam?"] I'm Rosamund. Your Liam is a...a lovely boy.
[Good lord, what can she even say?]
Miss, is there anything we can do to help?
FEEL BETTER SOON SWEET KABBY AAAAAAA
He doesn't seem at all bothered by it, though. Rather, it's like he doesn't even notice. His gaze is fixed so wholly on this battered woman that it's a miracle he's even thinking to include Rosamund in this mess at all, but he does seem to stay aware of her throughout.
The woman reaches up with her other hand - or tries to, and fails, and Dahut catches that one too and leans down so she can place her bloodied palm on his cheek.
You've made... a friend? How lovely... She wheezes out her words with rattling lungs. Despite the pain she must be in, she carries on like this is a normal conversation and she isn't bleeding out in a poisonous field. She turns her cloudy gaze toward Rosamund.
How wonderful to meet... you, madamemoiselle... What a kind young woman... She looks, maybe, like she's trying for a smile, but doesn't even seem to have the strength for that. As if saying what anyone in this situation would think, gravely but with apology: There is nothing more that can be done... And then, to Dahut: Oh, my darling Liam... I'll leave the rest to you... Never forget that your mother loves you so very, very much...]
Of course, I never will. I'll always remember. I love you, too, Mother...
[She gives his cheek one gentle, shaky stroke and then seems to still, and he just sits there unmoving, too, even with the press of miasma growing more potent with every second. Rosamund might taste iron in her mouth soon enough.]
I'M TRYIN MAN
She doesn't dare interrupt now. These last words are wasted on her, illusion or not. Her eyes go to Dahut. A sweet, gentle boy, no matter how unusual or long-lived, sitting on the ground, watching a woman who he calls mother fade away.
There's wetness at her cheeks soon. She averts her eyes for the last. It's too private. Too terrible to take from him, not in this sense. When the quiet lingers after her breath halts, Rosamund can taste it. Blood, all in the back of her throat.
She suppresses a cough. Instead her hand returns to Dahut's back, rubbing slow.]
I'm so sorry, Dahut. I'm so terribly sorry...
THE FLU RLY CAME FOR YOU...
At least he's well-aware of the fact that it's an illusion this time. The hand at his back and gentle words are enough to draw him away, and he gently sets his mother's hand over her chest and draws her eyelids shut.]
...Thank you, Mademoiselle Rosamund. Even after all these years, it's still... well. Some things don't go away with time, I guess.
[But he'll cough into his hand after that, give his mother's body one last stare, and then rise to stand. With his non-bloody hand, he'll reach back out for one of hers.]
Shall we see if that's enough to leave?
it did, bursts into tears!!!!
[How could it? The loss of family was knife that could never be dislodged. That wound may close over but blade stays snapped off within, gutting you anew when you twist just the right way.
She takes his hand, searching his eyes. If he'll let her, if he'll look at him. She'll take the lead now with a nod and soft steps forward.]
I should hope it is.
[Let him rest. That's enough for one day.
As they walk the scene evaporates, and they are back in the dank air of the Helly Belly. At once she breathes easier, though her chest remains taught and stinging.]
What happened to her?
OUR MEMSHARE BEFORE MEMSHARE 2
Thank you. [THEY'RE FREE THOUGH YIPPEE. Back in the Helly Belly and so glad for it... What a time to be alive. Or undead. It's fine. He gives her hand a little squeeze, clearing his throat from the last lingering feeling of lycoris poison. A beat as he considers, and then:]
She was assassinated by the rest of our family and left in that field. I was around five at the time, so it's been quite a while.
no subject
What? [She looks to him, appalled.] Why? For what? Their own mother?
[Or wife. Or daughter.]
no subject
Also that's such a mood! He's constantly appalled by his own terrible family! His shoulders raise into a sloping shrug.]
People do horrible things when the opportunity to grab power presents itself. I was my mother's only child and my father died when I was just a baby, but our family is fairly large and full of very ravenous people.