A slight tilt of his head. He wonders what she has to say, or rather, which parts, specifically, she wishes to apologize for. Either way, she did say she wanted to find someplace private.]
I suppose you've had plenty of time to think about what to say. [That isn't passive-aggressive, just a minor observation of the time spent not... well. Talking.] Where do you want to go?
[ it still feels like a knife. this is... almost a glimpse back in time, to the days spent snipping at him, of cutting herself on his sharp edges, of never quite being sure where they stood. is she imagining it, or has she permanently altered their relationship... again? ]
I thought... we might... go back to my old room, but...
[ the thought seems abruptly so stupid to her. naive. ]
[Until the conversation itself is had, it is impossible to know where they stand. But Henry can at least be cautiously optimistic. He isn't deeply offended by what happened (like some people). Hasn't he always been the one to give her time, the benefit of the doubt?]
Your observatory?
[Somehow, that surprises him. Forget their last conversation; after the revelation about Vecna, then that's an astounding ask that requires plenty of trust on her end.
Is she just looking for a place where she has no choice but to have this conversation? That certainly would count.]
...We can. I have been wanting to see it again. Are you sure?
[He's long got his foot wedged in the open door of her mind, but. Isn't it nice to ask?]
[ you know optimism is an outbred trait in the Vaux family line. shallow little breath—he's been wanting to see it again. and so has she. but she doesn't believe for a second that he'd think that about the state she means to leave it in. ]
We may not get another chance.
[ he has to have noticed. the warden's slipping control is not a subtle thing, but there are other indicators that have begun to creep into Sprezzatura's peripheral. the blocks are thinning, but there has been no one new to fill them for... days, weeks. people who have fallen into sleep are no longer waking back up.
[Yes, things are fading at the edges. The Warden is losing her grip. And isn't that delightful? An end to a prison, and finally, he might see freedom...
But it is an end to other things, too. It would be like pulling teeth for him to admit it, but he will miss a few of the people here. A few faces from his team. Yet it would be less difficult to admit that he would miss being able to see Sprezzatura whenever he pleases, too.
Every second marches them closer to the end. Time, for once, is an ally, but they race against it all the same.]
Then let's take advantage of the opportunities we have.
[He gestures at her to follow him.]
Come on. Let's find a particularly quiet corner of this library. We don't want to be rudely interrupted, do we?
[ the serenity with which he receives her makes her stomach churn. she knows his anger that boils underneath, but she can never read it for herself unless he either wants her to or has become so enraged that he no longer bothers to hold up the façade. like this, she cannot tell how hurt he might be, or if he's merely humouring her, or maybe everything she said that day has been buried away so deep that it may as well have never happened.
[The anger is always there, of course. It's so inlaid in him that it might as well be the foundation of everything he is. But in this case? The sharp edges of offense are certainly not directed at her; Henry's prerogative has always been retaining this friendship, this connection, with someone who is so much the same as him, in many ways. Maybe this can happen. Maybe they can undo what damage's already been done.
Or at least smooth over the rough edges.
There's a small table in the corner, with two chairs for them both to use. It's about as private as they can manage here in the library, and at the very least, it appears to be only the two of them today.]
[ she can feel her tail swish-swish-swishing as she walks, feel the way her fingers seem to pulse with her heartbeat. can't ever do things the easy way, can she? nothing by half-measures. only full fucking measures here in the house of Vaux, where letting a professed murderer into your mind is something you do intentionally—
she sits, folding her hands upon her lap. the line of her throat is quite taut. so are her lips. there's a whole lot bubbling up underneath, there, evident in the shaky way she exhales through her nose. ]
[He sits after she's settled, and everything about her reads as tense. Anxious just under the surface. He wonders, exactly, how that might change whenever they enter her observatory again -- maybe it won't.
But he will spare her the trouble of keeping it all together if she's simply in need of a more private space. No drawing this out. Easy enough to slip into the mind when the door's already opened, after all.]
All right. Close your eyes.
[When she does, the process is practically already beginning. His voice comes seconds after-]
[ as messy as ever. the sunlight which slants in through the diamond-pane windows is that of late afternoon, this time, rather than late night, but everything else... looks very much like that day in the inner prison cafeteria.
her desk is strewn with papers, her bed half-buried in trinkets and scrolls. there are the books, the baubles, the astrolabes and maps, candles, swag lamps, gemstones, crystals, mirrors, tomes, chests, globes, hourglasses, regular glasses, drinking glasses, and the gramophone warbles quietly in the corner, its tune almost wispy, as her recollection of what song was it, exactly...? grows dim.
she opens her eyes. takes a deep, painful breath as she turns her gaze around the room, one final time. then she's moving to pull out a chair for him. clothes draped over its seat, she pushes almost carelessly to the floor. ]
[He casts a glance around, and while the sight is familiar-- Why is it even messier in here than last time? He watches as she pulls out a chair for him, pushing her clothes to the floor.
...And he knows this is probably a more serious occasion than what this calls for, but come on. You should know better by now.]
Sprezzatura... [He bends down, scoops up the clothes, then hands them to her.] Don't leave your clothes on the floor.
[ she'll stand, arms bundled with falls of silky fabric—she remembers this dress. she wore it for the soiree her parents threw back when she was first accepted into Teaferth. her victory dress. if Henry is keen, he might notice her claws prick slightly into the fabric, as if some part of her wants to bring it it closer, or maybe out of the desire to strangle the necks of people who aren't here.
[He notices everything in a memory that he's in control of. Like a spider in the center of a web, feeling the little reverberations along each and every thread. The way she holds the fabric might as well be magnetized a hundredfold for him.
But that isn't the focus here, is it?
He raises his brows.]
You did.
[Admittedly. However-]
But I know you, Sprezzatura. You didn't mean it that way. And that's not at all what I've been worrying about this whole time since I've last spoken to you.
[Well, he can't help that. That's just how Henry is; he looks through a person as much as he looks at them, especially within a memory.
It's clear he's trying to be gentle, though. His tone is soft.]
That you didn't want to be friends anymore. Because you'd look at me and see something you failed at succeeding at, rather than... [A pause.] Someone you might have enjoyed spending time with.
[ oh. so it is like that. she feels very abruptly as though she's been dropped into one of the ice baths her mother is so fond of (good for the skin, Sapione!)—an involuntary breath whistles in between painted lips. her arms erupt in goosebumps.
well? what was she expecting? this is the kind of woman she is. it isn't new.
[ how can she make him understand, when her words are the reason they're here at all? she takes a few breaths, little punches of voice, half starts and broken stops. ]
Do you see this room? Everything in here... my most precious things.
[ her already-thick, already-heavy voice takes on a real timbre now. ]
It is all gone. [ she opens her arms; this time, when the gowns hit the floor, they disperse all at once into a fine dusting of ash. ] All of this work.
[ she touches the papers on the desktop; they curl and flake and burn. the song playing on the gramophone begins to crackle as the record warps, the memory of heat. she brushes past him and touches the horn—it droops, it tarnishes, and soon...
well, he'll see what her observatory really was, at the end. ]
When Teaferth burned, everything in here burned with it. Here is everything I failed to succeed at. It is already gone and over with. Forget it. It will never come back again. I live with this. But you—
[ Henry Creel—friendly orderly, child prisoner, the Vecna of another world. someone so very like her, and all the terrifying things that come with that. she sweeps back around, through the ash and charcoal, and reaches for his forearms, a touch that is as imploring as her gaze. please. please, please, please understand her. ]
—You are here. You are now. And it is going to feel like missing limb not to have you by me anymore.
[The flames turn everything into ash, the scent of burning in his nostrils. He is reminded of the very first day they met, the first time he eased himself into her head, when he met her oni -- and the angry fire that surrounded him in that place. It's come back around again, hasn't it? And just like before, the only reason he doesn't balk at the notion of fire, of heat pressing in, is because he's in control of this memory.
But it plays out as she likes. The observatory is just a ruined shell of itself by the time she's through.
She grasps him by his forearms, and Henry lifts his eyes to look at her. The expression on her face is all that he needs to understand; words are secondary to it. That is how he felt, to finally find people like himself in this prison. She was the first. His focus was pinned on her for what felt like such a long time, and what he's seeing now is the reverse come to fruition.
Funny how that happens. And while empathy is a rare creature from Henry Creel, he does feel... sorry. That he has done this to her, in a strange way.]
But I told you. [It's his turn to try to get her to understand. He leans forward, gently imploring.] I don't intend to stay gone. I won't be like the things eaten up by flames here in your memories. Our connection is-
[But he halts himself. He feels like he is repeating what he said before. And so, instead:]
Sprezzatura. How about we make each other a promise?
[ the saving grace is that there is never actually any flame. there is only the aftermath. a shell, that's right--a husk.
it's painful in ways she nearly doesn't expect... to bare this to someone. without the gramophone's warble, the space is filled only with the quiet whisper of the evening's breeze through burst panes of glass, the groaning of the room itself as it settles, and Sprezzatura's own heartbeat.
she sinks down to her knees as he speaks, hands gliding down his arms until they hold at his elbows.
he still doesn't understand. she can never properly explain it. this pain isn't about success or failure, it's about losing--not losing a competition with someone else, but losing a lifeline that the people around her seem to know exactly how to keep. ]
What promise?
[ it's about the naked fact that she'll miss him, and the hourglass is almost up. ]
[Oh, no, he certainly doesn't think it's about losing anymore. Or at least, not losing a competition with someone she hadn't known she was competing against in the first place -- Henry never really thought it was about that, anyway, which is why he was never truly upset.]
When this is all over, no matter where we find ourselves...
[He lifts his hands, puts one on her shoulder. The other, just a finger whisper-light beneath her chin.]
Let's promise to meet again. The walls between dimensions are flimsy, anyway, and we're both smart enough to find a way to make it work. And stubborn enough. [A little wan smile.] I'd miss you too much otherwise. You know that, right?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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A slight tilt of his head. He wonders what she has to say, or rather, which parts, specifically, she wishes to apologize for. Either way, she did say she wanted to find someplace private.]
I suppose you've had plenty of time to think about what to say. [That isn't passive-aggressive, just a minor observation of the time spent not... well. Talking.] Where do you want to go?
no subject
I thought... we might... go back to my old room, but...
[ the thought seems abruptly so stupid to her. naive. ]
no subject
Your observatory?
[Somehow, that surprises him. Forget their last conversation; after the revelation about Vecna, then that's an astounding ask that requires plenty of trust on her end.
Is she just looking for a place where she has no choice but to have this conversation? That certainly would count.]
...We can. I have been wanting to see it again. Are you sure?
[He's long got his foot wedged in the open door of her mind, but. Isn't it nice to ask?]
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We may not get another chance.
[ he has to have noticed. the warden's slipping control is not a subtle thing, but there are other indicators that have begun to creep into Sprezzatura's peripheral. the blocks are thinning, but there has been no one new to fill them for... days, weeks. people who have fallen into sleep are no longer waking back up.
this dream is ending. ]
And it is private there.
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But it is an end to other things, too. It would be like pulling teeth for him to admit it, but he will miss a few of the people here. A few faces from his team. Yet it would be less difficult to admit that he would miss being able to see Sprezzatura whenever he pleases, too.
Every second marches them closer to the end. Time, for once, is an ally, but they race against it all the same.]
Then let's take advantage of the opportunities we have.
[He gestures at her to follow him.]
Come on. Let's find a particularly quiet corner of this library. We don't want to be rudely interrupted, do we?
no subject
or is her own mind just exaggerating?
she follows him, silent. ]
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Or at least smooth over the rough edges.
There's a small table in the corner, with two chairs for them both to use. It's about as private as they can manage here in the library, and at the very least, it appears to be only the two of them today.]
Sit.
[She knows how this goes.]
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she sits, folding her hands upon her lap. the line of her throat is quite taut. so are her lips. there's a whole lot bubbling up underneath, there, evident in the shaky way she exhales through her nose. ]
I am ready.
no subject
But he will spare her the trouble of keeping it all together if she's simply in need of a more private space. No drawing this out. Easy enough to slip into the mind when the door's already opened, after all.]
All right. Close your eyes.
[When she does, the process is practically already beginning. His voice comes seconds after-]
And open them.
[And they will be back in her memory, yet again.
Still as messy as ever in here?]
no subject
her desk is strewn with papers, her bed half-buried in trinkets and scrolls. there are the books, the baubles, the astrolabes and maps, candles, swag lamps, gemstones, crystals, mirrors, tomes, chests, globes, hourglasses, regular glasses, drinking glasses, and the gramophone warbles quietly in the corner, its tune almost wispy, as her recollection of what song was it, exactly...? grows dim.
she opens her eyes. takes a deep, painful breath as she turns her gaze around the room, one final time. then she's moving to pull out a chair for him. clothes draped over its seat, she pushes almost carelessly to the floor. ]
Now you sit.
no subject
...And he knows this is probably a more serious occasion than what this calls for, but come on. You should know better by now.]
Sprezzatura... [He bends down, scoops up the clothes, then hands them to her.] Don't leave your clothes on the floor.
[OKAY DAD]
no subject
I bring you here to apologize, and you are worried about my clothes?
[ does this seem almost inverse to you? ]
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[Still, she may do with them as she likes. He won’t tell her to clean her room anymore, as much as it bothers his fastidious nature.
He sits.]
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...how does she begin?
look at him.
how does she begin? ]
I made you feel like objective.
no subject
But that isn't the focus here, is it?
He raises his brows.]
You did.
[Admittedly. However-]
But I know you, Sprezzatura. You didn't mean it that way. And that's not at all what I've been worrying about this whole time since I've last spoken to you.
no subject
this is before things went so wrong with Alec, so all she can do is squeeze her poor silken dresses tighter. he's not going to let her apologize...? ]
What, then.
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It's clear he's trying to be gentle, though. His tone is soft.]
That you didn't want to be friends anymore. Because you'd look at me and see something you failed at succeeding at, rather than... [A pause.] Someone you might have enjoyed spending time with.
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well? what was she expecting? this is the kind of woman she is. it isn't new.
so what changed? ]
No.
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No?
[Time to let her speak, then.]
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Do you see this room? Everything in here... my most precious things.
[ her already-thick, already-heavy voice takes on a real timbre now. ]
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Items from your past. Of research and study.
[Or of old dresses woven with complicated feelings.
And as much as he dislikes the mess, it is quite the collection of personal objects, isn't it?]
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[ she touches the papers on the desktop; they curl and flake and burn. the song playing on the gramophone begins to crackle as the record warps, the memory of heat. she brushes past him and touches the horn—it droops, it tarnishes, and soon...
well, he'll see what her observatory really was, at the end. ]
When Teaferth burned, everything in here burned with it. Here is everything I failed to succeed at. It is already gone and over with. Forget it. It will never come back again. I live with this. But you—
[ Henry Creel—friendly orderly, child prisoner, the Vecna of another world. someone so very like her, and all the terrifying things that come with that. she sweeps back around, through the ash and charcoal, and reaches for his forearms, a touch that is as imploring as her gaze. please. please, please, please understand her. ]
—You are here. You are now. And it is going to feel like missing limb not to have you by me anymore.
no subject
But it plays out as she likes. The observatory is just a ruined shell of itself by the time she's through.
She grasps him by his forearms, and Henry lifts his eyes to look at her. The expression on her face is all that he needs to understand; words are secondary to it. That is how he felt, to finally find people like himself in this prison. She was the first. His focus was pinned on her for what felt like such a long time, and what he's seeing now is the reverse come to fruition.
Funny how that happens. And while empathy is a rare creature from Henry Creel, he does feel... sorry. That he has done this to her, in a strange way.]
But I told you. [It's his turn to try to get her to understand. He leans forward, gently imploring.] I don't intend to stay gone. I won't be like the things eaten up by flames here in your memories. Our connection is-
[But he halts himself. He feels like he is repeating what he said before. And so, instead:]
Sprezzatura. How about we make each other a promise?
no subject
it's painful in ways she nearly doesn't expect... to bare this to someone. without the gramophone's warble, the space is filled only with the quiet whisper of the evening's breeze through burst panes of glass, the groaning of the room itself as it settles, and Sprezzatura's own heartbeat.
she sinks down to her knees as he speaks, hands gliding down his arms until they hold at his elbows.
he still doesn't understand. she can never properly explain it. this pain isn't about success or failure, it's about losing--not losing a competition with someone else, but losing a lifeline that the people around her seem to know exactly how to keep. ]
What promise?
[ it's about the naked fact that she'll miss him, and the hourglass is almost up. ]
no subject
When this is all over, no matter where we find ourselves...
[He lifts his hands, puts one on her shoulder. The other, just a finger whisper-light beneath her chin.]
Let's promise to meet again. The walls between dimensions are flimsy, anyway, and we're both smart enough to find a way to make it work. And stubborn enough. [A little wan smile.] I'd miss you too much otherwise. You know that, right?
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WE STILL NEED SOMETHING HAPPY TO THREAD
THIS IS GIVING ME WHIPLASH