Everything Fades

[tongueamok]

Who: Carlisle Longinmouth (tongueamok), Glacius (glacius), & [open]!
What: Deserted Event Nearly Kills Local Cleric. You Won't Believe What He Looks Like Now!
Where: Memorial Garden, North Island
When: August 31st - September 8thish
Warnings: Just a general catch-all for Carlisle for the early month! Probably going to be some sad topics like impending death, terminal illness, and suicidal ideation, so PG-13ish. Will update!


Shops, Western Island [closed to Glacius]

In good news, people are showing up again -- people, not monsters. The bad news is that Carlisle is still a complete wreck. He's alive, yes, and moving, both improvements over... well, all the alternatives: alive but not moving, dead and not moving, moving regardless of how dead he is. Yes, alive and moving is certainly the most preferable combination of those two words, no matter how utterly exhausted he feels.

The first of his current problems (or at least the problems that move themselves to the forefront of his mind, as he'd rather focus on what he can control over what he cannot) is his appearance: his hands are trembling, his legs doing the same as they struggle to hold him up. His glasses are cracked, his clothing torn, and though he hasn't yet seen his reflection, he's positive his hair is a complete and utter disaster. Worst is that there's ink all over him, traces clinging to the crevices of his skin, blotches soaked all the through the fabric of his jacket, his pants, and his tabard. That last one is particularly grievous, the dark mark spreading all the way across the emblem of his order, marking what wounds lie beneath.

He can still feel ink seeping from them, the old scars having been torn asunder by the incredible duress his body had been through only a day prior. He may have stopped coughing, and the ink might have finally ceased trailing from his eye, but he can still feel that tear eating him from the inside. He's sure of it.

And that brings him to his second problem: he cannot possibly get home on his own. He'd been in fair health when rowing himself to the western island from the northern one, but now? With his hands shaking as they are, his head thundering, and his heart feeling as though it might pound its way out of his ribcage?

He puts a hand to his chest, leaning against the wall of the darkened, empty store he's tucked himself away in for the time being. It is pounding, isn't it? But there's a familiar energy behind it, something he hasn't felt in days. Fear strikes as suddenly as a knife, apprehension abound -- what will Glacius think when he finds out? There will be guilt, certainly. Carlisle knows his partner well enough to know that much. Anger, perhaps. Frustration at their circumstances... and desperation to change them. All things Carlisle himself has felt in spades.

As badly as he wants to spare Glacius the heartache of this revelation, Carlisle knows he cannot hide this from him -- more importantly, he doesn't want to hide this from him, nor does he want to bear this alone. Burying his head in his hands, the throbbing behind his eyes nearly drowns out the sob that rattles from the back of his throat as his hopelessness finally catches up to him. The distance between them feels endless, but he reaches out regardless through the Mote.

Glacius?



Memorial Garden, Northern Isle [open]

Those who haven't been to the Memorial Garden lately might notice a change in it. First is the decor: with the trees gone, it's more obvious that the shrubs and bushes in the area have been properly pruned over the past few weeks, the foliage trimmed into tight shapes -- mostly orbs, but one is more of a pyramid. The markers themselves haven't moved, but around several of them are soft patches of soil, ones containing clippings from a shrubby plant with flowers as clear as glass. One marker in particular has the start of a curvy stalk buried next to it, the single, thorny leaf attached to it curling against itself.

And in addition to the new landscaping is its latest regular gardener, Carlisle Longinmouth. The garden has changed, and for those who know him, so has Carlisle. His already pale skin is nearly white now, sharply contrasted only by the dark marks under his eyes; what brown there was in his hair has now faded entirely, leaving behind only dull, grey locks. The only features that have any real color at all are his eyes, and what color there is -- they glow vibrantly now, the blue light behind them bright even bhind his glasses, so strong that it nearly drowns out his pupils.

Even his attire has seen some changes for the time being. Gone are his usual vestments, the blue pants and jacket replaced with a sweater and slacks. His tabard remains, now marred by a black stain that runs horizontally across it at his abdomen. At some angles, the head of a penguin can be seen hiding behind his ruined tabard. Given he looks as though he's been put through the wringer several times, he hopes no one notices, or at least has the courtesy to not ask about it.

Being on the same island as his personal garden, it wasn't hard for him to transplant some of the more stable plants over the past weeks, just something to spruce the place up... and to, perhaps, better commemorate those they've lost over the years. He looks almost lost himself as he wanders among the names, stopping beside one in particular and contemplating just how long it may be before his name ends up there.

Despite the penguin sweater, most people wouldn't describe him as a cheery fellow, even on his good days. Perhaps the caretaker of a place of sobering remembrance suits him more than he'll ever admit.

Comments

memorial garden

[dedikated]

When the city shifts back to what it should be, Kate runs through a certain list of priorities. Checking the state of the clinic, checking for the staff who aren't on the expeditions. Checking for her friends who aren't, as well. A slow process - slower, perhaps, than she would normally make it, savouring each familiar thing that had been missing in the last few days, devouring something from one of the shops with no hesitation.

(Jo really did have the right idea with all that stockpiling, but Kate was an entire island away from her home even if she'd tried it.)

Her journey takes her to the north island, to guard HQ, and she barely thinks twice about the lack of Henry's presence when she gets there. It's dismissed as he's somewhere else. In the training grounds, or at the armoury or a guardpost. Maybe he's doing the exact thing she is, hunting down others. It's almost shrugged off until she wanders to the training grounds and they're empty. The armoury, too. When she finally checks her phone and sees the complete absence of his name, her heart is the proverbial stone sinking in her stomach.

Of all the people—

Why is it, no matter how familiar she is with the Door's random approach to who comes and goes from this city, she never truly expects some of them? How could Henry be here so long and then gone in the blink of an eye? Her eyes skim the names once more, and the only relief is that she doesn't notice any other familiar ones having vanished.

Which means Carlisle is here, somewhere. And she needs to find him.

His apartment turns up nothing, and instead, she makes her way to the part of the island which contains the park — or what's left of it. Feet wander without much aim around the now bare expanse of land, and it's almost poetic that she'd find him in the memorial garden now of all times.

Though the stark shift of the colour of his hair, having seemed faded for a long time and now a completely colourless grey, and the blinding white of whatever small parts of exposed skin there are, they don't give her a chance to quip anything close to what her first thought is.

Can a heart be a stone in the base of your stomach and a knot in your throat at the same time?

"Carlisle?"

The alarm barely keeps itself out of her voice, and she almost chokes on his name.

[tongueamok]

Carlisle's body stiffens as Kate's voice rings out; he almost turns as she says his name, but utter shame for his appearance keeps his back to her. He's well aware she needn't see the glow of his eyes to know just how bad of shape he's in.

"Kate," he replies softly, not the impassive greeting he's given her in their past few conversations. Shame aside, he's glad she's here -- not memorialized within the garden proper, but physicall present.

[dedikated]

It doesn't matter, because Kate is going to come closer anyway, equal parts relief and horror flooding her body and making it move.

"The hell—" happened. But she doesn't need to have him explain that, does she? She knows. The thing they've been dreading, the thing which had her so worried she took to the network to ask about impossible solutions, that thing...

It's happened, hasn't it?

"... We're out of time," is all she says as she closes the gap, before she kneels down, pressing one of her throwing knives into the ground for another missing person. "... Aren't we?"

[tongueamok]

He glances to the knife, knowing what it likely symbolizes, and wondering idly who it is for. It doesn't particularly matter for the inevitable conversation at hand, he supposes. What will they place in memory of him? He can think of at least a few appropriate items, all of them sad choices, and none of them any more likely to bring him back than the other memorials. This isn't being sent home, after all. This is ceasing to exist.

"Perhaps," he answers. "What time I have is certainly borrowed." He turns his face further from her, avoiding her eyes. "... at best."

[dedikated]

An arrow would have been more fitting, but she didn't think to bring one. Maybe another day, when the shock's subsided and she has the time.

(Right, because who has the time in Hadriel? There's fragments of the Door coming home soon, a clinic to run, liasing to do, and now...

Well. Now there's this.)

"S'pose we better start working." He doesn't need to worry about her eyes, she's still fixated on the spot where her blade meets the earth, the words automatic. She knows that this is an almost impossible task, one that Kate had never considered herself facing in her lifetime, but it's one that has to be done.

They have to fight it.

What else can they do?

[glacius]

It's been a long couple of days for Glacius, separated from and worried for his partner while trapped on a boat mostly full of people he doesn't much care for, but not nearly as hard as things have been for Carlisle. Unfortunately, it takes the alien some time to become aware of this; whatever trickery the gods pulled to separate those back on the mainland also interfered with the metaphysical connection he'd been relying on to let him know if something was amiss with his partner.

He should have been aware of the terrible, soul-rending injuries the moment they occurred; he should have similarly been able to detect the unsanctioned tampering with those wounds when it was performed. Instead, he only felt the aftermath when things reverted to normal... but the fright, disorientation, and utter fragility he felt from the link was more than enough to galvanize Glacius. He gave the few people on the voyage that he trusted a quick alert that he would be departing, but then he fielded no questions; he simply plunged into the sea and swam back towards the mainland as quickly as he could.

It was as the western island was finally looming large on the horizon that he felt the ping. The ice alien didn't break stride, but rather kept pushing himself as hard as he could to get back quickly, dammit—some of that desperate concern likely bled across the Mote as he responded to his partner.

Carlisle... where are you? The cleric's life force... it feels... wrong, weak! What has happened?!

[tongueamok]

Carlisle almost wasn't expecting a reply, but he feels hope break through his utter despondence the moment he does, an emotion so strong and so sudden that he cannot help how it bleeds back into the Mote. Even so far away, Glacius continues to be a beacon for him in the most despairing of times. He can feel that concern, though, doubled by his own; it only furthers his worry and his building shame.

The western isle, he responds, sounding defeated even in his own head. A... lot happened, actually.

[glacius]

Glacius can tell; it must have been a lot to elicit this maelstrom of different emotions he's receiving from his partner... but amidst the shame and concern and his defeat, there is still some hope. The ice alien latches on to that and tries to fuel it, knowing how important it is to getting through the worst of what this place puts them through.

Well whatever it was, you are alive. We are both alive, and we can recover. Together once more, as always, the otherworldly being attempts to reassure. I am nearly back. Just hold on a little longer, alright? Then we will get this all sorted.

He has to believe that they can. He does not like what he's feeling across the Mote, how... tenuous it is. But his life force has been enough to prop his partner up so far, and he'll give whatever it takes so that the young cleric can hold on.

[tongueamok]

We can recover, he says. Carlisle curls tighter against himself, pushing his glasses to his forehead. He doesn't have the heart to tell his partner that he's not sure he can, this time -- not even together. He coughs, and forces himself to relinquish his channels to the Mote, even if only for a moment. The energies there help stifle the constant aches he's feeling; though his wounds have been mended, his body is in a painfully fragile state. He hopes that doesn't ripple through the Mote.

I... He stops. Glacius is trying to reassure him, and he should do the same, yet he cannot fight the feeling it'd be nothing more than a lie. He goes for something that is somewhere between the two: I am alive. There is that much.

Memorial Garden

[vocarrah]

Ianchus hasn't stopped wandering Hadriel since everyone has reappeared. Even just seeing people puts his heart at ease. If he was less tired, he wouldn't be able to stop grinning, but his cheeks haven't yet filled back out (he's sure they will, though, once he gets back to the alcohol in the speakeasy. And...once the fruit trees grow back).

He spends the first couple days soaking in the Hot Springs, his favorite place. But even he can only do that so much, possessed by a lingering restlessness that no doubt ties into his ordeals.

He hasn't been on the North Island often, but something pulled him toward it--maybe it was the fact that he'd met his companions there. And that's where he sees--

--it takes him a moment to recognize Carlisle. The man looks...absolutely, utterly awful.

Perhaps most of their interactions have been poking fun at each other. But the concern that lances through him is all too real. He approaches from the other side of a shrub, his voice soft.

"Are you...alright?"

[tongueamok]

The softness and concern in Ianchus' voice is so foreign that it takes Carlisle by surprise; he casts a glance over his shoulder, his eyes aglow with an unnatural light that hadn't been there when they spoke last... or perhaps it had been, but nowhere near as bright as it is now, so vibrant that the true color of his eyes is completely lost. For all anyone knows, they are likely as grey as the rest of him, his hair devoid of hue, his skin so pale it might as well be white.

"Ah. You."

That's not an accusatory jab, but a remark of quiet acknowledgement, of recognition. He doesn't quite remember Ianchus' name, but he knows his face and the barbs they've tossed at each other well enough. He turns away, pawing at the stain across the middle of his tabard -- another new addition.

"Are you here for a reason? To visit those who have gone missing?"

[vocarrah]

Ianchus is practically staring a hole through Carlisle, but he does take a moment to glance around the garden.

"I've never been here before. Is that...what this is for?"

He hadn't thought about it--hadn't even thought of something like that. He's a man who hasn't even been able to properly mourn his family years after the fact. But others aren't like him, of course. Of course people would want to mourn those that are gone, even if that 'gone' isn't necessarily death.

He seems to have drifted off into his own mind mid-conversation.

[tongueamok]

Grateful when Ianchus finally stops staring at him -- he is painfully aware of how he looks and that terrible, black stain across his tabard, thank you very much -- Carlisle answers his question.

"The Memorial Garden." He gestures to the markers, each one engraved with names and symbols representative of someone now gone. "For the lost and the departed from this place. May they have returned to better worlds and times than these."

He knows he certainly won't.

garden;

[hasitsthorns]

"You've seen better days."

Perhaps she should have more tact. Rose has never really been known for her subtlety though. Kind of the opposite, actually, as Carlisle no doubt knows. Still, she hasn't really been around lately what with all the water and how absolutely terrifying it was.

She's grateful to Connor for being a ferryman lately. It's given her the opportunity to touch base with quite a few people. Still, she's realizing just how much she's missed being scared out of her wits to leave the island she'd been stuck on. Hm.

[tongueamok]

Yes, Carlisle does indeed remember Rose and her occasional lack of tact. He gives her a polite nod, his nose wrinkling at her assessment.

"And you have not been seen at all," he returns, shifting the topic away from himself. "I admit that I thought you'd pester me again in my garden sooner."

He doesn't sound as annoyed as his words make him out to be; perhaps this is his way of saying he was concerned her name might be next among the memorials.

[hasitsthorns]

'Occasional.' Don't sugar coat things now.

"Yeah, that's what a terrible hydrophobia will do to you." She isn't shy about why she absolutely did not want to vote for ocean planet. This place could fuck right off for all she cared. "Finally got over myself though and found a ferryman. I know I'm overdue for a garden visit." She sounds equally nonchalant but with an undertone of appreciation.

Don't worry, they're not rid of her just yet.

"Actually, kind of glad I found you for that reason since I wanna' talk about something kind of related."

[tongueamok]

He would ask how one with hydrophobia manages to not go completely mad when trapped on islands, but her latter statement draws his immediate attention.

"Related?" He glances Rosie's way, brow arching. "To the garden, to me, or to your fear of water?"

Garden

[theweakhavepurpose]

The Collapse has not come to pass. Pratt isn't dead, nor abandoned to suffer for his many transgressions; alone and anguished for eternity until he's properly atoned for what he's done. And while he mostly wants to stay in his house and hide in case something like that happens again, he can't deny that maybe having a network of people is also a benefit. Especially like-minded people who see this place for what it is: false gods and all.

Besides, what if not everyone came back? It seems like they did, but who knows. The people on the ships are still gone, maybe only some folks were returned from... whatever just happened.

So he's heading over to the garden that Carlisle has, he could do with seeing some greenery now that the orchard has been reduced to a few trees and some scrub. He hesitates as he spots him further in amidst the shrubbery. There's something off about him, but Pratt can't place it. Something different, but he isn't sure what. It wasn't like Pratt had been paying super close attention while doing laundry, he definitely wasn't at his best while scurrying around smelling like a meat packing plant.

Ultimately he shrugs it off, he's being paranoid again. "Morning." He pauses, unsure how to phrase his next thought because ho boy have his social skills taken a beating along with his body while being held captive. "Glad to see you didn't stay vanished."

[tongueamok]

Carlisle's social skills could also use work; despite having invited Pratt to see his garden, he seems a bit sheepish now that the deputy has arrived, his eyes fixating on the ground rather than his visitor as he tries not to point out the fact his tabard has a huge, blackened stain right across the abdomen now, a new addition since they last spoke. It's obvious, impossible to miss -- and a bit ironic, given he was the one chastising Pratt about not washing his clothes. Some stains just don't come out with the machines... or at all.

"And the same to you, Deputy," he acknowledges. "This is not quite the garden I invited you to see, but one under my care regardless. Mine is the one further in the park with all the vines. This is, ah. The Memorial Park. For... memorials."

Good start.

[theweakhavepurpose]

Pratt won't begrudge him some stains, he's not the most fastidious person himself. And it's not like the man smells like death or anything. All nice and clean, Pratt still somehow looks like a depressed scarecrow even though he's wearing a Hawaiian shirt with parrots all over it. It manages to make the dark circles under his eyes even more obvious, along with his general scruffiness.

"I didn't realize you had more than one garden." That's certainly something he's not heard of. People with multiple homes sure, multiple cars, but never multiple gardens. This guy must be really into plants.

"Memorial." He frowns thinking about that. "For those that aren't here anymore?" Died. Gone home. Simply vanished. He supposes it's all the same for those who remain. "There's so many..."

[tongueamok]

Pratt doesn't mention the stain, and Carlisle doesn't mention the horrible birds across his shirt. They're on even footing as far as the clergyman is concerned.

"Ah, this one isn't mine," he corrects, "but one that was built to remember those who have vanished. There are indeed so many... yet, so many remain."

He gestures to a marker near his feet, and to the plant growing near it. "I have tried to spruce it up a bit with some of my own plants, but it is a bit lacking now that the trees are gone, isn't it?"

memorial garden

[writtendestiny]

Poison comes by here fairly often by herself, as well as occasionally seeing fit to bother the gardener in his own personal garden (always, always staying away from those vines). She hasn't moved to push her luck like she did the first time, mostly keeping her hands to herself and expressing an abundant curiosity in everything he's growing.

In the Box, they'd had the Wall. Here, it's a garden. She thinks she likes that better, though as of yet she doesn't really know any of the names that she can see here.

When she spots Carlisle, she recognises him immediately, but it doesn't take a moment longer for her to realise that he looks... a good deal less well than when she last saw him. She had thought that a good deal of how he looks wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but with how he looks now, she quickly re-evaluates that assumption.

"Hi, Carlisle." She clasps her hands neatly behind her back, her attention sliding to the name he's contemplating. "... It's really nice here."

Not a cheery fellow, to be sure... but she isn't always very cheery, herself.

[tongueamok]

Despite his growing familiarity with Poison (still a silly name, he insists), Carlisle crosses his arms as she nears him, as though it'd cover the inky stain across the middle of his tabard. It does not. A quick glance her way tells him she's eyeing the memorial before him: Emily Davis.

"It is," he admits softly. "It pales compared to my garden, but the quiet sanctuary one may find here among the names of the lost does offer a peace that can be obtained nowhere else in this city, I've found."

[writtendestiny]

(Maybe one day she'll trust him enough to tell him her birth name, though she's convinced doing so is cursed.)

She draws closer when he doesn't appear to immediately object to her presence, and looks down at the name properly. Emily Davis. Not a name that she'd hear in her own realm, but she's spent so far away from there now...

"... We had a wall, in the place I was before. People would write names on it, but it was like this." Poison frowns subtly, wrapping her arms around herself and curling her fingers over her elbows. "Quiet. Everyone knew what it was for."

And no one defaced it or meddled with it in any way. It was too important for that.

"I thought it was odd at first, but then I started going there, too."

[tongueamok]

"Odd, perhaps," he replies, his eyes still on the marker before them. "But so long as there is comfort to be found in such a place, it serves a purpose. That is more than can be said of some individuals."

He has said the same about himself many times. He knows the truth is otherwise, but it's still hard to convince himself of that when years of social ostracization weigh upon his conscience. He hadn't deserved it, he tells himself; it was necessary... for others. Not for him, as he'd thought before. It had been a detriment to him, as he has come to realize far too late. He'll never been the sort who enjoys parties or large gatherings, but the whispers of his own solitude are far more maddening than people could ever be.