[The shift in tone couldn't be more stark. From chrome and searing lights to parchment and ethereal glow, the rift that overtakes now sends Arthur into a fantastical battle. The platforms are made of books, pages ripple in mystical eddies below. Atop a tower lies an enormous crystalline inkwell, the liquid swirling slow in the air above it.
All around are combatants. Beautiful young women, closer to the ink. Midway there is an ungodly-sized frog, a cat in boots, a wolf in a red cape. A puppet and an eldery man, and then Rosamund, closer to the entrance.
From beside the levitating ink, a pallid woman in black lace calls out to her as she holds her spell in place.
"I expected no one more than you to understand."
Rosamund is quick to retort, "I expected no one more than you to want to live."
And for that, she is blasted with a wave of magic. Rosamund falls atop the tome she stands on. Death is inevitable, her middle gouged, already going pale.
A tiny thing comes to her side, a little woman with wings and a kind face. "Princess, is it your time to rest, or do you want your story to continue?"
Rosamund's nearly gone. Her breath barely carries the sound. "I don't think it's my time to rest."
[he's been in this situation enough times by this point in the day that it's not really a surprise when another memory starts, but. he can't really say he was expecting any of that, by the time it's over.
he looks a little ill despite himself, taking a deep breath to try and bring himself fully back to reality as the snippets of a life he wasn't meant to experience fade away. what can he even say to that, besides:]
[She looks pale. Seeing it from the other side was no treat. Less hurtful than living it, of course, though "living" was a poor choice of words.]
I'm...I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have — with everything happening, I should have been more careful, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have walked so closed to you. Are you okay?
I... [She looks down at the wreath at her waist. It's more obvious now where they stem from. He'd seen the hole get blasted into her, and from there the thorns had spread.]
Well. They still hurt sometimes. But they don't move like that, not since I came here. They haven't attacked anyone, and I barely hear them at all.
They just keep my heart beating now. I think that's the most they can do.
[She realizes now that perhaps the shock of plant violence is not enough to distract from the oddities involved. Rosamund is silent for a moment, calculating how best to explain.]
We had different ideas about how to change our fates. We wanted to give everyone the power to make their own choices. They thought our only option was to destroy everything.
Well...you see... [Ahem.] Rather than live out lives that were dictated by higher powers, they thought it would be better to just end everyone's suffering. That way it would never happen again.
Exactly. [She nods.] And even in their own cases, that they gave up on ever having a chance to make things better...I wanted differently for them, too.
Being placed direct in his shoes makes all the difference. Rosamund comes out shivering, pale, gulping back her own nausea. The echoes of his grief prick her skin. They rend her heart, push new tears down her face.
She looks to him, clutching at her own chest in horror. Not a word comes out of her mouth.]
[it affects him differently - he's had years of living with this truth, so he pushes himself not to react too openly beyond a short intake of breath and a stiffening in his shoulders.]
[She can see where this is going. Where this went. The mad dash within the reverie already made sense, but now the sickening guilt clicks in.
Rosamund looks to Arthur and senses a fissure form in his stiff posture, his clipped words. This is one way to respond to pain. It's probably not the only wound he has, to become so reticent as he is.
She throws prudence to the side. Rosamund approaches and winds her arms around his shoulders in a soft embrace, chin nesting at his shoulder.]
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WEEK 3: Monday ((cw: Body horror, death, plant/eye gore, squelching sounds?))
All around are combatants. Beautiful young women, closer to the ink. Midway there is an ungodly-sized frog, a cat in boots, a wolf in a red cape. A puppet and an eldery man, and then Rosamund, closer to the entrance.
From beside the levitating ink, a pallid woman in black lace calls out to her as she holds her spell in place.
"I expected no one more than you to understand."
Rosamund is quick to retort, "I expected no one more than you to want to live."
And for that, she is blasted with a wave of magic. Rosamund falls atop the tome she stands on. Death is inevitable, her middle gouged, already going pale.
A tiny thing comes to her side, a little woman with wings and a kind face. "Princess, is it your time to rest, or do you want your story to continue?"
Rosamund's nearly gone. Her breath barely carries the sound. "I don't think it's my time to rest."
"Then I think—"
Then the decision is taken out of both their hands.]
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he looks a little ill despite himself, taking a deep breath to try and bring himself fully back to reality as the snippets of a life he wasn't meant to experience fade away. what can he even say to that, besides:]
Miss Du Prix—
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[She looks pale. Seeing it from the other side was no treat. Less hurtful than living it, of course, though "living" was a poor choice of words.]
I'm...I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have — with everything happening, I should have been more careful, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have walked so closed to you. Are you okay?
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[...]
Is that - how you've felt since then?
[with the briars wrapped around her like that.]
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Well. They still hurt sometimes. But they don't move like that, not since I came here. They haven't attacked anyone, and I barely hear them at all.
They just keep my heart beating now. I think that's the most they can do.
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[even with the changes, it sounds very difficult.]
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Don't be. I'm all right. I've been doing just fine. I'm more sorry you had to see something so... unpleasant.
[Gruesome, more like.]
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[and in such a strange place?]
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[She realizes now that perhaps the shock of plant violence is not enough to distract from the oddities involved. Rosamund is silent for a moment, calculating how best to explain.]
We had different ideas about how to change our fates. We wanted to give everyone the power to make their own choices. They thought our only option was to destroy everything.
So...we had to stop them.
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[lightly baffled]
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Well...you see... [Ahem.] Rather than live out lives that were dictated by higher powers, they thought it would be better to just end everyone's suffering. That way it would never happen again.
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[wanting something better for even the people who tried to do so much harm, he means. he's about to say something else, but then it's memory time.]
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Being placed direct in his shoes makes all the difference. Rosamund comes out shivering, pale, gulping back her own nausea. The echoes of his grief prick her skin. They rend her heart, push new tears down her face.
She looks to him, clutching at her own chest in horror. Not a word comes out of her mouth.]
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...My apologies. That you had to see that.
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[Her head shakes. She wipes at her eyes, the shock dripping out of her in lieu of a terrible sorrow.]
Don't apologize. It was nothing of your own doing. [The vision or the murders. She's certain of it.] What happened to them?
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There are... very destructive creatures where I'm from. They lost a fight with one.
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[She can see where this is going. Where this went. The mad dash within the reverie already made sense, but now the sickening guilt clicks in.
Rosamund looks to Arthur and senses a fissure form in his stiff posture, his clipped words. This is one way to respond to pain. It's probably not the only wound he has, to become so reticent as he is.
She throws prudence to the side. Rosamund approaches and winds her arms around his shoulders in a soft embrace, chin nesting at his shoulder.]