[ 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?
[ in another time, this would be a warlock pact. but here, it's just a promise.
she shivers hard when he touches her, a rush of adrenaline, but also emotion she doesn't have a name for. yet.
this is going to happen. the only choice is to make sure everything comes to pass as it should, in whatever way she can. her tail sweeps the ashy floor behind her, leaving a wide swath of hardwood bare. ]
I miss you, too. [ already. ] You can never go back on deals you make with devils, Henry.
[That would have been quite the warlock pact. But here, bolstered by their connection, a promise is made of even sterner stuff than that. Wound together tighter, down to the atom. Made so keen that it cuts through the spacetime that divides universes.]
I don't intend to. I always keep my promises, Sprezzatura.
[ and a shuddering exhale. this has tapped a scary little vein in her: the understanding that this is the first of many conversations like it to come. she takes the hand beneath her chin, to hold it.
on her knees in front of him in the blackened remains of the room... their image reflects smokily back at them from within a cracked mirror. ]
Even if I am old and wretched crone when next we meet?
[ she can't lie; a part of her still feels inexorably crushed. she tried and tested this connection between them so rigorously and for what—? all that time wasted. she could have done more, been better—
well. she can be better now.
in that case... she takes that hand in both of her own. the pads of her thumbs press into his palm, fairly hard, though it doesn't quite verge on painful. listen to her. listen to her words. ]
Don't make me wait. You'll be in for earful if I find my way to you first.
[He's listening. The pressure pressing into his palms adds weight to this moment that takes place, technically, only in her head. But it is never only in someone's head, is it? If nothing else, making this promise in the ruins of her old observatory underlines its importance.
[ spite is an astounding motivator. dimly, she is aware of her heart pounding hard in her chest, achy, still, but determined; the heavy, ashy quality of the room's light lends a particular lambent glow to her gaze. ]
[Is that a challenge? He senses the intensity of it practically radiating from her. It pulses with the room itself. Or is that her heartbeat? In her mind, it could be one or both.]
Very much so.
[If he can fuel that fire, then all the better.]
But if there's anyone that can make the walls between universes crumble faster than me... then it's you.
now that's a success no one can shame her into giving up. wordless, she stares up at him in silence, just a couple heartbeats or so, but her chest rises and falls quickly enough to be noticeable. nothing's being said, but... it is.
then it passes, and she releases him from the captivity of her gaze. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
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...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]
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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. ]
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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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she shivers hard when he touches her, a rush of adrenaline, but also emotion she doesn't have a name for. yet.
this is going to happen. the only choice is to make sure everything comes to pass as it should, in whatever way she can. her tail sweeps the ashy floor behind her, leaving a wide swath of hardwood bare. ]
I miss you, too. [ already. ] You can never go back on deals you make with devils, Henry.
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I don't intend to. I always keep my promises, Sprezzatura.
[There's already a precedent. He'd find a way.]
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on her knees in front of him in the blackened remains of the room... their image reflects smokily back at them from within a cracked mirror. ]
Even if I am old and wretched crone when next we meet?
[ this is. her attempt at lightening the mood. ]
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You? A wretched old crone? Never.
[But yes. Even then. Time's always the enemy, after all, and they'll hardly let it stop them.]
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well. she can be better now.
in that case... she takes that hand in both of her own. the pads of her thumbs press into his palm, fairly hard, though it doesn't quite verge on painful. listen to her. listen to her words. ]
Don't make me wait. You'll be in for earful if I find my way to you first.
[ it's a race. ]
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That actually makes him chuckle.]
I have a head start on you, Sprezzatura.
[It's a race she'll lose. :) ]
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Then I will simply work harder, won't I?
[ spite is an astounding motivator. dimly, she is aware of her heart pounding hard in her chest, achy, still, but determined; the heavy, ashy quality of the room's light lends a particular lambent glow to her gaze. ]
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Very much so.
[If he can fuel that fire, then all the better.]
But if there's anyone that can make the walls between universes crumble faster than me... then it's you.
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now that's a success no one can shame her into giving up. wordless, she stares up at him in silence, just a couple heartbeats or so, but her chest rises and falls quickly enough to be noticeable. nothing's being said, but... it is.
then it passes, and she releases him from the captivity of her gaze. ]
There are ways. I will reach them.
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WE STILL NEED SOMETHING HAPPY TO THREAD
THIS IS GIVING ME WHIPLASH