[Regrettably, Dahut is standing a little too close to a certain princess when a memory rift swallows them whole.
He finds himself looking through the eyes of Rosamund. It's a room in a dark inn, a candle of ominous importance on the table. Standing around are a motley crew, more fable than human. They speak, fretful but quick-paced, as if sensing they're on the verge of doing something they'll regret.
"Do you want privacy while you talk to your mom?"
"No, no. I'm not-"
Rosamund pipes up, "I'd like to meet your mom."
The little puppet boy fidgets on the spot. "Yeah, I'm not embarrassed of my mom. I mean, I've never had a mom before, so, I mean, I just... And she's just very..."
He hesitates. The candle flickers before him, waiting for his choice. Before he speaks, the old man panics and thrusts Rosamund — only Rosamund — into a closet.
The light in the crack of the door shifts. There's a sense of expansion. There's a scream — a woman, not anyone present before. A shadow stretches, vast, unknowable.
And by the time the madness ends, their saviour sums it all up with one concise phrase.
Dahut's dropping his plate of scones for the third time today, he really should just give up and leave them in the kitchen and tell everyone where to get them if they want any, damn.
That's a whole lot of wildness to take in in just a few moments, though - a few moments that simultaneously sure do feel strung out over years. As the vision fades, he's left gasping for breath, a hand rising to clutch at his chest over where his memory bank is struggling to process the onslaught of foreign, strong feeling.]
Rosamund immediately runs to his side. It's not the first time she's been flung back to this damnable moment, and for once she forgets her own panic. It's Dahut she's worried about. She remembers how he'd been laid out on the floor, under the labcoat. He's clutching at his chest now.
She bends to better meet him, hands settling at his shoulder and back. She speaks softly.]
It's okay. It's okay. Breathe deep, all right? Everything's going to be fine.
Sweet Rosamund is so caring, she should just let him splat onto the scones and become one with the void floor... He reaches out when she comes to support him, resting a hand on her arm in turn, the other still against his chest. At the very least, he doesn't seem to be on the precipice of launching into another fucky Reliver emotions spiral...]
Ah— I'm okay... [He always feels vaguely embarrassed when other people feel the need to console him from their own horrific memories.] --But are you?
[She nods fast as he asserts himself, but falters when he asks after her.]
Me? I... [Well then. He can catch a waft of her own dread, not just of a pulse-pounding encounter but of perceiving things best never seen. An awareness of something beyond her scope or power that might rend her apart if she turns to face it.
And exhaustion. A bone-weary exhaustion that betrays her easy cover and quick words.]
I'm fine. I've seen her before. I don't like having to see her again, but it's not the first time I've been made to.
[There's a beat.]
For what it's worth, I don't think she can do much to anyone any longer.
[They're emotions he sure can't blame her for feeling, given what it looked like she was dealing with. Even though the encounter wasn't his own, nor the dread or sensation of witnessing something unknowable, it's still hard to shake the lingering remnants of it so soon.]
...I'm glad. Something like that feels like it shouldn't exist. It's too big a threat.
[And big threats should always be eliminated, for the good of the people who would otherwise be destroyed by them.]
[And now comes the hard part: trying to put her nonsensical world into sensible terms. There's a line between her brows as she puzzles it all out.]
She was the Wicked Stepmother. She was a character in someone else's story, who was made only to be a villain so that the heroine could be loved. And when she discovered that — when she found out the truth of her existence, she decided she wanted to do something about it.
She found a way to leave our world, and to start devouring all the versions of her that ever existed. Then she started eating those that were close to her, or rather the role she played. Gaining power to...well, I suppose she wanted revenge on the people who made us.
[Damn he can understand going batshit after finding out that the entire purpose of your existence was just to be shitty and hated so everyone loved someone else, at least in theory. But what she became is still incomprehensible to him... Busting out of your book house and eating other versions of yourself really makes you into an eldritch monstrosity, huh.]
They should count themselves lucky that she was already stopped, then, all things considered.
[His shoulders hunch upward for just a moment as he still shakes off the lingering unease of WITNESSING THINGS best left in the shadows he hates it here.]
...I'm sorry you had to experience that, though. That was a horrible feeling...
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
WEEK 7: Monday ((cw: body/edritch horror, cannibalism, threatening minors, squelching noises))
He finds himself looking through the eyes of Rosamund. It's a room in a dark inn, a candle of ominous importance on the table. Standing around are a motley crew, more fable than human. They speak, fretful but quick-paced, as if sensing they're on the verge of doing something they'll regret.
"Do you want privacy while you talk to your mom?"
"No, no. I'm not-"
Rosamund pipes up, "I'd like to meet your mom."
The little puppet boy fidgets on the spot. "Yeah, I'm not embarrassed of my mom. I mean, I've never had a mom before, so, I mean, I just... And she's just very..."
He hesitates. The candle flickers before him, waiting for his choice. Before he speaks, the old man panics and thrusts Rosamund — only Rosamund — into a closet.
From there, things get strange.
The light in the crack of the door shifts. There's a sense of expansion. There's a scream — a woman, not anyone present before. A shadow stretches, vast, unknowable.
And by the time the madness ends, their saviour sums it all up with one concise phrase.
"What the fuck was that?"]
((Watch from 17:39-End))
no subject
Dahut's dropping his plate of scones for the third time today, he really should just give up and leave them in the kitchen and tell everyone where to get them if they want any, damn.
That's a whole lot of wildness to take in in just a few moments, though - a few moments that simultaneously sure do feel strung out over years. As the vision fades, he's left gasping for breath, a hand rising to clutch at his chest over where his memory bank is struggling to process the onslaught of foreign, strong feeling.]
no subject
Rosamund immediately runs to his side. It's not the first time she's been flung back to this damnable moment, and for once she forgets her own panic. It's Dahut she's worried about. She remembers how he'd been laid out on the floor, under the labcoat. He's clutching at his chest now.
She bends to better meet him, hands settling at his shoulder and back. She speaks softly.]
It's okay. It's okay. Breathe deep, all right? Everything's going to be fine.
no subject
Sweet Rosamund is so caring, she should just let him splat onto the scones and become one with the void floor... He reaches out when she comes to support him, resting a hand on her arm in turn, the other still against his chest. At the very least, he doesn't seem to be on the precipice of launching into another fucky Reliver emotions spiral...]
Ah— I'm okay... [He always feels vaguely embarrassed when other people feel the need to console him from their own horrific memories.] --But are you?
no subject
Me? I... [Well then. He can catch a waft of her own dread, not just of a pulse-pounding encounter but of perceiving things best never seen. An awareness of something beyond her scope or power that might rend her apart if she turns to face it.
And exhaustion. A bone-weary exhaustion that betrays her easy cover and quick words.]
I'm fine. I've seen her before. I don't like having to see her again, but it's not the first time I've been made to.
[There's a beat.]
For what it's worth, I don't think she can do much to anyone any longer.
no subject
...I'm glad. Something like that feels like it shouldn't exist. It's too big a threat.
[And big threats should always be eliminated, for the good of the people who would otherwise be destroyed by them.]
But-- what was she...?
no subject
You're right. She shouldn't.
[And now comes the hard part: trying to put her nonsensical world into sensible terms. There's a line between her brows as she puzzles it all out.]
She was the Wicked Stepmother. She was a character in someone else's story, who was made only to be a villain so that the heroine could be loved. And when she discovered that — when she found out the truth of her existence, she decided she wanted to do something about it.
She found a way to leave our world, and to start devouring all the versions of her that ever existed. Then she started eating those that were close to her, or rather the role she played. Gaining power to...well, I suppose she wanted revenge on the people who made us.
no subject
They should count themselves lucky that she was already stopped, then, all things considered.
[His shoulders hunch upward for just a moment as he still shakes off the lingering unease of WITNESSING THINGS best left in the shadows he hates it here.]
...I'm sorry you had to experience that, though. That was a horrible feeling...
[Even just as a witness, that was truly wild.]