I don't know that it's a woman. Or anything human at all. [ he tilts his head, thinking, but there's clearly some avoidance there to thinking about this at all. ] Cree always said that I had the glint. The attention of the gods, for good or ill. A raven will always spot a shiny coin. I spent years in prayer to the Raven Queen, Matron of Death, but she never once answered me in life, and only ever visited me to touch the hands of those I know. [ he rolls his shoulders, uncomfortable. ] Sehanine, the Moonweaver. Probably. Or the crazed, last mad visions of a dying mind. But the gods don't care for my life or yours. It is amusement to them, nothing more.
[ as for the splinter. he rubs his fingers at his temple. ]
During the time I was dead, a ... gnat. A parasite. A splinter took hold of my body. A piece of something seeking a puppet, and my corpse happened to be free. Cree was unable to resurrect me during that time - the body was up and moving, but my mind was elsewhere. You felt its death in the memory, same as me, I'm sure.
[me just gawping at your incredible turn of phrase]
I think I did. [The knife. Right? Her hand clutches where the wound drove true.] And were you able to come back? As yourself? Or are you...
[What would it mean, to find yourself alive but only in a place like this? She knows the repetition of her own lives, but though there are unexpected similarities between them she doesn't think it's the same. He may not have been expecting to be resurrected, or perhaps there were even more terrible fates waiting for him under the gods' watchful gaze.
And no one used her old body like a toy. She's fairly sure of that.]
I'm alive. Have been for a few weeks before all of this.
[ what would it mean, to find yourself alive in a place like this. life, death, life, death and life again - what comes after thrice upon a time?
he does a theatrical little sweep wide of the arms, red eye on the palm of one hand. ]
But `myself` is an interesting question maybe best left to the philosophers. I am something. I don't believe it is the same. I feel sometimes this is a costume I wear. Lucien is a part in a play that I keep playing because it is expected, because it is the only way to move forward for the time being. But part of me has been lost, part of me has been splintered, and the part that remains is sewn back together in haste.
It's strange, being here. I'm tethered to a body I thought I would not have to keep for much longer. It's more mine than it has been in a while.
[What a cavalier attitude he's painted on for her.
Actually, that's giving herself too much credit. Most of it is to do with himself, something to brush over the fissures and keep moving forward, stay ahead of the game. Out-talk the outsiders and dance wide circles around the lookee-loos, as he once so glibly called them.
Rosamund's head tilts as she listens, growing ever more still.]
Well. It's not ideal. [Fair ways off from it.] And maybe those parts of you are gone for good.
But...what is here, that's still worth keeping, I think. The old and the new. [And she'll chance moving forward, hand settling light on his shoulder. He can pull away if he likes, she's not going to be a bother.] I hope you'll let yourself stay tethered a while longer, Lucien.
there's a deep sigh out, the shoulder drops a bit, but he doesn't move away or anything. a bit of a wan smile. ]
No choice, I'm afraid. I've received some rather dire threats about the "universal soup" from someone who decided to leave shortly after making them, so I've got to stick around if only to make a point.
Really? [She looks to him perplexed. Then her brows pop high.] Oh my goodness, I think you're right? Normally I feel like I talk far too much about myself, I guess you've been spared the worst of it.
Well, one secret might be—
[Sorry, quick interruption, the memory void would like a word with both of you.
In the space they move to now there is a strange kaleidoscope of perception. They are two people watching a memory of six people, who are watching a memory of another person entirely.
And this one is so clearly placed within a book. The world around them is patchy, parts of it fully rendered as real life and others bleeding to illustration, ink on parchment, or torn out completely so as to leave holes. Lucien can watch Rosamund and her ragtag gang of misfits follow the view of a woman whose face cannot be perceived speak to a hag who remains clearer than reality itself. One who wished to erase her existence, and the other whose power makes her impossible to erase.
The hag speaks first, riding in a mortar and pestle in front of a hut suspended on two chicken legs. "So, you have come far to this place, riding on your horse. What is it that you seek?"
"Help. Understanding. I'm a proud woman. My daughters are badly injured and hated in our kingdom, as the princess is quite beloved, and the story has spread far and wide, her side of the story about how she was... treated."
"You did mistreat her."
"What?"
"Of course you did. You are Wicked Stepmother."
"I was not a wicked stepmother."
"I did not say you were a wicked stepmother. You are Wicked Stepmother. Don't you know? If you will agree to give me one favor of yours, binding, maybe I tell you why your life is so rotten." She grins, and it is bone-chilling. "I give you something now which will break you, because you have asked for it, and let this be a lesson to be careful what you ask for."
The woman agrees. They enter the hut and she is presented with a book: Cinderella. The woman grows confused. "Why are you showing me the story of my step-daughter?"
"This is the story you are from."
"Show me my story."
"You don't have a story! You don't even have a name."
"Yes I do. I do have a name."
"No, no, no. You might have a name in some frivolous way, but it's not important that you have a name. It doesn't matter that you have a name. You want to know why your life is ruined? Do you want to know why you hate your stepdaughter? You hate your stepdaughter so that we can love your stepdaughter, because the crueler you are to her, the more we like her. This is what you are."
Even without a face, the shock reads plain on the woman's frame. Her shoulders stiffen, her head turns slow. "I don't even have a name in my own story. I don't even have a name in my own story, and my own story isn't even my story." She pauses, thinking. "I don't know how I feel about that. Or maybe I do. Who makes these stories? Where can I find them?"
"You want to find them? You will have to sacrifice much to find them."
She replies in a low voice, "How about I start with my name? I so clearly don't need it."
And the Stepmother takes a knife, plunges it into her chest, and blood splatters all over the page in front of them as she moves to the next edition of her story, but out, beyond the world, move into the spaces between worlds.
A libary that stretches for all eternity. Books upon books upon books, each with lives led by the ink they were written in. The Stepmother surveys all with a chilling calculation.
"You made me to be evil. You made me to be a monster, and I never had a choice. Every bad thing that happened to me was planned from the start." She moves to the books. "I don't think I like your story. I don't think I like any stories."
This blood red ink grows on the pages. There are other versions of Cinderella, other versions of these stories. The Stepmother reaches down into one and picks a little illustration off a page. Then eats it.
She moves through these texts and parchment and pages, having ascended to a higher reality. As that happens, she grows greater and greater and vaster and vaster, until she starts devouring things outside of her own stories.
She opens another book and sees an evil queen with a huntsman.
"Close enough."
She rips the Wicked Queen out and devours her with a snarl.
And the memory wipes clear. Rosamund stands pale and sweating next to him, hands shaking from the sudden vision.]
if he knew who that guy was he'd be invoking his name. this is a lot-- a lot to process both the concept of story and time and who this woman is, but ... he knows what folktales are. he knows what fate is, and what he does or doesn't believe about it. ]
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no subject
It's-- my death. And my return. And the time in between, where the splinter took hold.
no subject
The time in-between...so that woman? [Some sort of inter-planar figure no doubt, or a powerful sorceress who could make the trip without injury.]
What do you mean, splinter?
no subject
[ as for the splinter. he rubs his fingers at his temple. ]
During the time I was dead, a ... gnat. A parasite. A splinter took hold of my body. A piece of something seeking a puppet, and my corpse happened to be free. Cree was unable to resurrect me during that time - the body was up and moving, but my mind was elsewhere. You felt its death in the memory, same as me, I'm sure.
no subject
I think I did. [The knife. Right? Her hand clutches where the wound drove true.] And were you able to come back? As yourself? Or are you...
[What would it mean, to find yourself alive but only in a place like this? She knows the repetition of her own lives, but though there are unexpected similarities between them she doesn't think it's the same. He may not have been expecting to be resurrected, or perhaps there were even more terrible fates waiting for him under the gods' watchful gaze.
And no one used her old body like a toy. She's fairly sure of that.]
no subject
[ what would it mean, to find yourself alive in a place like this. life, death, life, death and life again - what comes after thrice upon a time?
he does a theatrical little sweep wide of the arms, red eye on the palm of one hand. ]
But `myself` is an interesting question maybe best left to the philosophers. I am something. I don't believe it is the same. I feel sometimes this is a costume I wear. Lucien is a part in a play that I keep playing because it is expected, because it is the only way to move forward for the time being. But part of me has been lost, part of me has been splintered, and the part that remains is sewn back together in haste.
It's strange, being here. I'm tethered to a body I thought I would not have to keep for much longer. It's more mine than it has been in a while.
no subject
Actually, that's giving herself too much credit. Most of it is to do with himself, something to brush over the fissures and keep moving forward, stay ahead of the game. Out-talk the outsiders and dance wide circles around the lookee-loos, as he once so glibly called them.
Rosamund's head tilts as she listens, growing ever more still.]
Well. It's not ideal. [Fair ways off from it.] And maybe those parts of you are gone for good.
But...what is here, that's still worth keeping, I think. The old and the new. [And she'll chance moving forward, hand settling light on his shoulder. He can pull away if he likes, she's not going to be a bother.] I hope you'll let yourself stay tethered a while longer, Lucien.
no subject
there's a deep sigh out, the shoulder drops a bit, but he doesn't move away or anything. a bit of a wan smile. ]
No choice, I'm afraid. I've received some rather dire threats about the "universal soup" from someone who decided to leave shortly after making them, so I've got to stick around if only to make a point.
no subject
[Flashbacks to the Baron of the Bricks and his delicious stew.
Okay but that is less important than the rest of the sentiment, and Rosamund returns his smile. Warm though, and with a soft crinkle of her nose.]
Sorry to say but I'm a little glad to hear it. I'd miss you if you left so soon.
no subject
[ no the soup is important. he does a soft snort too. ]
You know, get the feeling you know a lot of my personal issues, but somehow I don't know that many of yours. I'm owed a story. Or at least a secret.
no subject
Well, one secret might be—
[Sorry, quick interruption, the memory void would like a word with both of you.
In the space they move to now there is a strange kaleidoscope of perception. They are two people watching a memory of six people, who are watching a memory of another person entirely.
And this one is so clearly placed within a book. The world around them is patchy, parts of it fully rendered as real life and others bleeding to illustration, ink on parchment, or torn out completely so as to leave holes. Lucien can watch Rosamund and her ragtag gang of misfits follow the view of a woman whose face cannot be perceived speak to a hag who remains clearer than reality itself. One who wished to erase her existence, and the other whose power makes her impossible to erase.
The hag speaks first, riding in a mortar and pestle in front of a hut suspended on two chicken legs. "So, you have come far to this place, riding on your horse. What is it that you seek?"
"Help. Understanding. I'm a proud woman. My daughters are badly injured and hated in our kingdom, as the princess is quite beloved, and the story has spread far and wide, her side of the story about how she was... treated."
"You did mistreat her."
"What?"
"Of course you did. You are Wicked Stepmother."
"I was not a wicked stepmother."
"I did not say you were a wicked stepmother. You are Wicked Stepmother. Don't you know? If you will agree to give me one favor of yours, binding, maybe I tell you why your life is so rotten." She grins, and it is bone-chilling. "I give you something now which will break you, because you have asked for it, and let this be a lesson to be careful what you ask for."
The woman agrees. They enter the hut and she is presented with a book: Cinderella. The woman grows confused. "Why are you showing me the story of my step-daughter?"
"This is the story you are from."
"Show me my story."
"You don't have a story! You don't even have a name."
"Yes I do. I do have a name."
"No, no, no. You might have a name in some frivolous way, but it's not important that you have a name. It doesn't matter that you have a name. You want to know why your life is ruined? Do you want to know why you hate your stepdaughter? You hate your stepdaughter so that we can love your stepdaughter, because the crueler you are to her, the more we like her. This is what you are."
Even without a face, the shock reads plain on the woman's frame. Her shoulders stiffen, her head turns slow. "I don't even have a name in my own story. I don't even have a name in my own story, and my own story isn't even my story." She pauses, thinking. "I don't know how I feel about that. Or maybe I do. Who makes these stories? Where can I find them?"
"You want to find them? You will have to sacrifice much to find them."
She replies in a low voice, "How about I start with my name? I so clearly don't need it."
And the Stepmother takes a knife, plunges it into her chest, and blood splatters all over the page in front of them as she moves to the next edition of her story, but out, beyond the world, move into the spaces between worlds.
A libary that stretches for all eternity. Books upon books upon books, each with lives led by the ink they were written in. The Stepmother surveys all with a chilling calculation.
"You made me to be evil. You made me to be a monster, and I never had a choice. Every bad thing that happened to me was planned from the start." She moves to the books. "I don't think I like your story. I don't think I like any stories."
This blood red ink grows on the pages. There are other versions of Cinderella, other versions of these stories. The Stepmother reaches down into one and picks a little illustration off a page. Then eats it.
She moves through these texts and parchment and pages, having ascended to a higher reality. As that happens, she grows greater and greater and vaster and vaster, until she starts devouring things outside of her own stories.
She opens another book and sees an evil queen with a huntsman.
"Close enough."
She rips the Wicked Queen out and devours her with a snarl.
And the memory wipes clear. Rosamund stands pale and sweating next to him, hands shaking from the sudden vision.]
no subject
if he knew who that guy was he'd be invoking his name. this is a lot-- a lot to process both the concept of story and time and who this woman is, but ... he knows what folktales are. he knows what fate is, and what he does or doesn't believe about it. ]
... Are you alright?
no subject
[And after a tense beat.]
...I'm sorry. That's not a very — forget about it.