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. ]
[ it still hurts. she wants to ask who--and how, and why the stakes shifted so very quickly, without her even knowing. but it's wiser not to follow that path... isn't it? walking down it doesn't make it change. ]
You should have told me sooner.
[ that's all. she sighs, allowing his hand to slip from between hers, and looks around her wretched room ]
But I should not have made you feel how you did. You said I made you smile through so much.
[Well. She'll find out soon enough, won't she? 8')
But maybe he should have. Easier to keep the knowledge to himself than letting it unwind and spill freely. Old habits die hard, and the timing never presented itself in Henry's estimation, though maybe that was still... unfair to her. Unkind. Henry Creel's MO, basically.]
[It's fine maybe they can discuss that.......later]
Squandered? Look at us now.
[She's let him into this memory. Let him into one that is painful, burning. She's apologizing to him, and still wanting to remain connected -- they're making promises with each other. Nothing's been squandered, and he says as much.]
Nothing's been squandered. And you're one of the most interesting people I know. Becoming bored of you is like becoming bored of myself.
[And we know how Henry's pride would make that a non-issue. That's a compliment in its own way.]
[ it's time she feels like she squandered most of all. so long spent snipping at him over things that now seem so minor—yes, even the familicide. now, their time together is dwindling down to zero and she just can't see it yet. she just knows it's happening. ]
I would so hate to be boring woman.
[ finally, she leverages off her knees. ash sticks to her clothes. she does not Prestidigitate it away. ]
[Time only dictates what begins and what ends if you let it, Sprezzatura. They can mold it to their own liking if they try hard enough.]
I was going to, anyway.
[He grins a little knowingly. What a sour note it'd be, leaving her room in this state, even if it is just a memory. He gestures with a hand, almost lazy, and just like that, things warp and wane and reset. Her room is exactly how it was just prior, mess and all.
Though maybe that dress is no longer on the floor.]
I'm not usually the kind of person to tell someone how they should treat their kinder memories... [That is the opposite of how he operates, generally.] But you should hold onto this one. This room.
[ like the fire that ruined it never was. she feels a sudden lump in her throat, emotion suddenly so much closer to the surface than it was a moment ago--when she looks around and sees the smudges where her memory is already not so clear.
the books on her shelves have no titles. the writing scrawled across her many scrolls... it's mostly indecipherable. ]
[Details that even Henry can't sharpen with his powers; when there's nothing to work with, there's only fuzzy, barely-there recollections, and of course he notices them, is aware of them. Blurry little patchworks on the whole tapestry of memory.]
The details don't matter. It's feelings, and experiences, that do.
[That's what makes it so easy to wrench out grief and fear from his victims. Not every little thing needs to be accurate, only the bigger picture, the associations with any given image that he can twist into despair.
But... in that way, the opposite is true, too.]
We can make new ones, better ones. Wasn't I owed a glass of wine?
[ but the details do matter to her, the way she always fixates on them to the exclusion of the bigger picture. so for a moment or two, she looks tragically unhappy--like a hand has clenched around her heart.
[Memories warp and wane all the time. Even Henry's. Just ask him about the days in the lab, where rote sameness should ingrain every detail harshly into his recollection, but the opposite is true -- every day felt like a blur, one bleeding into the next, with no separation in-between, clouding it all over with discontent.
But he supposes that's different: a place hated versus a place loved. He can understand why it would be hard for her.
...Wine seems to perk her up, though.]
Well, it better be, now that you've set high expectations.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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The intensity unwinds, and he straightens.]
Good. I look forward to it.
[But then, his usual curious gaze, head tilted.]
Does that make you feel a little better, then? About us?
[Their poor strained friendship.]
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You should have told me sooner.
[ that's all. she sighs, allowing his hand to slip from between hers, and looks around her wretched room ]
But I should not have made you feel how you did. You said I made you smile through so much.
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But maybe he should have. Easier to keep the knowledge to himself than letting it unwind and spill freely. Old habits die hard, and the timing never presented itself in Henry's estimation, though maybe that was still... unfair to her. Unkind. Henry Creel's MO, basically.]
Well. Maybe I pushed too hard.
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I am... sorry. [ even now, an apology is like pulling stones from her throat ] For what I squandered. You will not become bored of me now, will you?
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Squandered? Look at us now.
[She's let him into this memory. Let him into one that is painful, burning. She's apologizing to him, and still wanting to remain connected -- they're making promises with each other. Nothing's been squandered, and he says as much.]
Nothing's been squandered. And you're one of the most interesting people I know. Becoming bored of you is like becoming bored of myself.
[And we know how Henry's pride would make that a non-issue. That's a compliment in its own way.]
It won't happen.
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I would so hate to be boring woman.
[ finally, she leverages off her knees. ash sticks to her clothes. she does not Prestidigitate it away. ]
Can you... fix room?
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I was going to, anyway.
[He grins a little knowingly. What a sour note it'd be, leaving her room in this state, even if it is just a memory. He gestures with a hand, almost lazy, and just like that, things warp and wane and reset. Her room is exactly how it was just prior, mess and all.
Though maybe that dress is no longer on the floor.]
I'm not usually the kind of person to tell someone how they should treat their kinder memories... [That is the opposite of how he operates, generally.] But you should hold onto this one. This room.
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the books on her shelves have no titles. the writing scrawled across her many scrolls... it's mostly indecipherable. ]
I am already losing it.
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The details don't matter. It's feelings, and experiences, that do.
[That's what makes it so easy to wrench out grief and fear from his victims. Not every little thing needs to be accurate, only the bigger picture, the associations with any given image that he can twist into despair.
But... in that way, the opposite is true, too.]
We can make new ones, better ones. Wasn't I owed a glass of wine?
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and it pops, and she laughs.
he's right. she does owe him some wine. ]
Haa. Really good stuff, this time.
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But he supposes that's different: a place hated versus a place loved. He can understand why it would be hard for her.
...Wine seems to perk her up, though.]
Well, it better be, now that you've set high expectations.
[He grins.]
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WE STILL NEED SOMETHING HAPPY TO THREAD
THIS IS GIVING ME WHIPLASH