Carlisle Longinmouth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tongueamok) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hadriel_logs2017-06-03 06:27 pm
tongueamok) wrote in hadriel_logs2017-06-03 06:27 pm
Entry tags:
All the White Horses have Gone Ahead
Who: Carlisle Longinmouth (tongueamok) + open + a closed prompt for Glacius (glacius)
What: People go missing, and panic ensues.
Where: Park, Speakeasy, Spire 2 (Apartment 401)
When: 6/5
Warnings: PGish
Overall, it's a nerve-wracking day for Carlisle, but what day isn't for the heir of the Longinmouth estate?
It starts out innocuously enough, as Carlisle makes his way to Emily's sewing shop. While he doesn't give his pupil regular lessons anymore -- she doesn't particularly need them -- he does still check in with her from time to time, getting her opinions on glyphs, seeing if she'll transcribe some things for him with her far-neater-than-his handwriting. With his papers in hand, he opens the door—
Or walks straight into the door, as it doesn't budge when he tries the knob. Carlisle backs up a step, straightening his glasses with a befuddled look. Locked? Peering into the window tells him she's not in -- odd. Emily sometimes has the early shift with that coffee cart she and her friends run, he reminds himself, but it's plenty late enough for her to be here.
He lets out an aggravated sigh and waits for a bit, figuring she might show up at any time. He waits ten minutes, then twenty before sighing again -- more irritably this time, as though Emily would hear him from wherever she is and appear to open the door for him. He pulls out his communicator, scanning down the list of residents to find her name... but it's not there.
Carlisle's brow furrows as he searches again, pulling the device closer to him and narrowing his eyes behind his glasses. He must have overlooked it, he tells himself. She's there, surely -- Emily has been in the city longer than he has. He simply missed her name. It's a trick upon his eyes by this accursed technology. Unfortunately, a second and third, more thorough search reveals he was right the first time, and that her name simply isn't on the contact list for the citizens of Hadriel anymore. Emily is gone -- from the list, from the communicators, and if that means what it has always meant, from the city entirely.
Oh.
That's a rather somber sort of oh that rings through Carlisle's head, worry etching across his face as he simply stands there, dumbfounded. He suffers through and entire minute, maybe more, of quiet shock before he finally tucks his communicator away and starts moving, aimlessly heading back into the city, his mind anywhere else but where he's actually going. It's not as though he hasn't had people disappear from the city: there was Miriam, Kate, Chris. He's lost friends before, though it always seems notable to him, as he doesn't have a great deal of friends to begin with. He's too private a person, too troublesome to deal with even on good days. Even Carlisle only likes himself in measured doses.
But Emily meant something to him. She was a student, someone who had taken an art he'd taught her and not only took it seriously, but made it her own; she was a friend, one who looked out for him even when he insisted she do otherwise. And now she's gone, just like the others, and there's that terrible sinking feeling that she wouldn't be if she'd not associated with him. It is said in his world that the twice-cursed are misfortune incarnate to those who would make the error of being near them, and Carlisle, at that moment, cannot think of a greater misfortune for Emily than being returned to a terrible monster-filled mountain where her friends are dead.
That's the sort of thought that riles Carlisle's natural paranoia, making him worry about other people who have associated with him. There's one being in particular he worries about more than any other.
Park [open]
Carlisle spends the early afternoon in the park, buried deep within the area in a spot that he and Glacius have turned into his latest garden. While not entirely hidden, it is set back far enough to be off the normal paths, a spot of green one might notice in the distance among the blasted trees near the riverside. There are rudimentary fences constructed of stone, mostly ones salvaged from debris when the city split into two and buildings deteriorated. There are plenty of plants, crawling vines and flowering shrubs that are a far cry from the ones found in Sorrow's orchard. There's even the base of a small building, a structure with four walls and a door that's mostly meant to serve as storage.
There's also a man who is clearly wrapped up in his own head, muttering to himself as he angrily prunes away at leaves on some smaller, potted specimens.
"I should have known this would happen," he grumbles in clear irritation, his tone absolutely embittered. Carlisle shifts the pot around to get a better angle on what needs to be cut away, removed for the betterment of the entire fern. Wouldn't that be something, to remove what -- or who -- poisons the entire city with his presence as easily as he removes those dying leaves?
Carlisle pushes his glasses to his forehead and paws at his eyes a moment, setting aside his shears to wipe his free hand on his gardening apron. That's not a productive thought, and he knows it, yet there it is all the same, a torrent of negative self-reflection threatening to pull him under. Would Emily still be here if he hadn't known her? Would Kate? Was there really no correlation, as she is always so apt to—
Was, Carlisle corrects inwardly. Emily was so apt to tell him that, just as Glacius is. How long will it be now until he brings misfortune to his icy partner, as well? Or to anyone else? Is there anything to even be done about it now? He has long lived with the knowledge that he is the failure of his bloodline, and that a cursed creature such as himself would only bring ill upon those closest to him. He'd thought that, perhaps, he could escape such a fate away from his world. He'd toyed with the idea that he had been led astray his whole life when people claimed him to be the reason his family line will die with him. He'd wondered, even for a moment, if he could be more than the most pathetic of the Longinmouth line, the weak link in a once-strong chain.
However, as he hurls one of his plants as far as he can throw it and rubs at his bleary eyes again, choking on the breath lodged somewhere in his throat, Carlisle decides he was clearly wrong to ever consider such nonsense.
Speakeasy [open]
The evening is spent searching for liquor. With the former bar gone, Carlisle makes his way to the Speakeasy, ready to drown his problems in his former vices. He knows better -- he knows his partner would be disappointed Carlisle didn't turn to him for solace from his deprecating thoughts. However, the more the despondent Carlisle considers pulling out his communicator and just calling Glacius... the more nervous he gets. Emily was close to Glacius, as well, and the alien is no doubt hurting from her loss... but what if he's no longer in the list of names, either? What if he's gone?
That's paranoia talking, Carlisle reminds himself... and yet, with how unnerved he is from the mere thought of the panic that will set in the second he sees Glacius' name is no longer among the residents of the city, he finds he cannot even bring himself to see if his fears are even valid. Not right now. Not yet.
Maybe after he's had a drink.
Though Carlisle does have a bottle sitting before him on a table in the corner, the hours tick by without him imbibing. He's instead sitting back there, still incessantly chattering to himself -- or maybe he's talking to the bottle at this point. It does have a cat's head sculpted right into the glass. It gives it character.
"I should- I should just do it," he mutters, his nails curling against the table as he runs his other hand through his hair for the umpteenth time; it is more unkempt than usual, his fastidiousness unraveling with this composure. "I don't know what I'm afraid of."
He seems to reconsider that lie within one second, as though the cat-bottle would judge him for his lack of conviction. "I mean, I know what I'm afraid of, but. I- I should trust he's fine. He's always fine. The sort who can accomplish anything he puts his mind to. In fact, he'll call me anytime now, surely."
Yes, anytime. And yet, despite this being the one time he hopes technology will come to his rescue, his communicator doesn't ring.
Apartment 401 [forglacius]
And by the time the late evening rolls around and the night is in full swing, Carlisle has worked himself into near panic. He barely manages to get inside his apartment, his hands shaking so badly that he can hardly maneuver the keys into the lock. "It's fine," he says aloud -- with no one, plant or otherwise, to talk to this time, he is absolutely talking to himself. That's not unusual, all things considered. "It's fine. Glacius is fine. He'll- he'll probably be waiting as it is. Back from his patrol, I'm sure. Hah, what took you so long, Carlisle? That's what he'll say. And I'll see this has all been for nothing. I mean, not nothing, as Emily is still gone. Still my fault she's gone, by the way. It's fine. It's just fine."
Unfortunately, the dwelling is empty when Carlisle finally gets the door open. His mind works into overdrive to keep himself from completely breaking down as panic latches onto him. "He's asleep," he reassures himself now, tossing aside his bag and heading right to Glacius' door. It's not like the alien to go to bed before Carlisle gets home, but then, it's not like Glacius to not call, nor is it like him to not be home already, nor is it like anything for Emily to just be up and gone. What a strange day it's been!
Carlisle knocks at the door, the nervous smile plastered across his face fading as fast as that brief, denial-born glimmer of flippant humor. "Glacius? I'm sorry I'm home so late. I- I stopped, er. Somewhere. Lost track of the time. Funny how that happens here in a cave."
Silence.
"I'll admit that, ah," he continues, stumbling over his words. He claws at the back of his neck with one hand, the other fumbling with his tabard. "It was the Speakeasy. Little place run by Miss Rey. You remember her, I'm sure, being on the Guard with her and all. Fantastic woman, sometimes. Not much of a conversationalist. She's got her merits, though."
Further silence. Carlisle fidgets uncomfortably, tension mounting in his shoulders.
"I- I didn't mean to break my word to you. I didn't drink. I mean- maybe just one swallow to take my mind off- well, there's been a lot on it today, actually. I- I should have called you, but- but I- I started thinking about, um. I just happened to notice today that Emily's name isn't in the phone anymore. Funny thing, really. And I wanted to call you with the communicator, but you know how I am with technology and... whatnot."
The clergyman pauses there, inwardly praying for an answer as the seconds tick by, the thudding in his chest growing painful the heavier it gets. Disappointment, irritation, remorse, anything. He pushes the door open when nothing comes. "... Glacius?" Though the icy bedroom is still there -- and still relatively icy -- the alien who usually inhabits it is nowhere to be found. He's out far later than he should be, Carlisle thinks to himself, trying to swallow the knot in his throat; it doesn't budge.
A shaky laugh forces itself out of Carlisle as he breaks the silence himself once more. "Something m- must have happened," he mumbles, trembling as horror sets in before it even has a full foundation. "Just- just a busy day for the Guard. I'll just- I'll just call, and it'll- it'll be fine."
Oh, but calling would require him to look at the list of names, he remembers, the reason he hasn't already made that call back to torture him once more as it paints a clear scenario in his mind's eye. Looking at that list would result in him not finding Glacius' name on it, surely. He'd deny it as much as he did earlier, searching the contacts again and again, but to no avail. And then he'd panic -- catastrophically so, as with the recent bout of frights, but far worse -- and that'd be just awful. It could be the easy solution, the logical part of him says; it could also be a shortcut to utter despair that he is currently not equipped to handle.
And where does that leave Carlisle Longinmouth, heir of the Longinmouth estate, in the wee hours of the morning? Hiding in his closet. It's a little cramped for his tall stature, but at least there's nothing to be terrified of in there -- nothing but the utter hopelessness consuming his own mind as he mutters another desperate prayer to his goddess. He doesn't know if she can hear him... but it's better than the thought that he might be alone.
tongueamok) + open + a closed prompt for Glacius (glacius)What: People go missing, and panic ensues.
Where: Park, Speakeasy, Spire 2 (Apartment 401)
When: 6/5
Warnings: PGish
Overall, it's a nerve-wracking day for Carlisle, but what day isn't for the heir of the Longinmouth estate?
It starts out innocuously enough, as Carlisle makes his way to Emily's sewing shop. While he doesn't give his pupil regular lessons anymore -- she doesn't particularly need them -- he does still check in with her from time to time, getting her opinions on glyphs, seeing if she'll transcribe some things for him with her far-neater-than-his handwriting. With his papers in hand, he opens the door—
Or walks straight into the door, as it doesn't budge when he tries the knob. Carlisle backs up a step, straightening his glasses with a befuddled look. Locked? Peering into the window tells him she's not in -- odd. Emily sometimes has the early shift with that coffee cart she and her friends run, he reminds himself, but it's plenty late enough for her to be here.
He lets out an aggravated sigh and waits for a bit, figuring she might show up at any time. He waits ten minutes, then twenty before sighing again -- more irritably this time, as though Emily would hear him from wherever she is and appear to open the door for him. He pulls out his communicator, scanning down the list of residents to find her name... but it's not there.
Carlisle's brow furrows as he searches again, pulling the device closer to him and narrowing his eyes behind his glasses. He must have overlooked it, he tells himself. She's there, surely -- Emily has been in the city longer than he has. He simply missed her name. It's a trick upon his eyes by this accursed technology. Unfortunately, a second and third, more thorough search reveals he was right the first time, and that her name simply isn't on the contact list for the citizens of Hadriel anymore. Emily is gone -- from the list, from the communicators, and if that means what it has always meant, from the city entirely.
Oh.
That's a rather somber sort of oh that rings through Carlisle's head, worry etching across his face as he simply stands there, dumbfounded. He suffers through and entire minute, maybe more, of quiet shock before he finally tucks his communicator away and starts moving, aimlessly heading back into the city, his mind anywhere else but where he's actually going. It's not as though he hasn't had people disappear from the city: there was Miriam, Kate, Chris. He's lost friends before, though it always seems notable to him, as he doesn't have a great deal of friends to begin with. He's too private a person, too troublesome to deal with even on good days. Even Carlisle only likes himself in measured doses.
But Emily meant something to him. She was a student, someone who had taken an art he'd taught her and not only took it seriously, but made it her own; she was a friend, one who looked out for him even when he insisted she do otherwise. And now she's gone, just like the others, and there's that terrible sinking feeling that she wouldn't be if she'd not associated with him. It is said in his world that the twice-cursed are misfortune incarnate to those who would make the error of being near them, and Carlisle, at that moment, cannot think of a greater misfortune for Emily than being returned to a terrible monster-filled mountain where her friends are dead.
That's the sort of thought that riles Carlisle's natural paranoia, making him worry about other people who have associated with him. There's one being in particular he worries about more than any other.
Park [open]
Carlisle spends the early afternoon in the park, buried deep within the area in a spot that he and Glacius have turned into his latest garden. While not entirely hidden, it is set back far enough to be off the normal paths, a spot of green one might notice in the distance among the blasted trees near the riverside. There are rudimentary fences constructed of stone, mostly ones salvaged from debris when the city split into two and buildings deteriorated. There are plenty of plants, crawling vines and flowering shrubs that are a far cry from the ones found in Sorrow's orchard. There's even the base of a small building, a structure with four walls and a door that's mostly meant to serve as storage.
There's also a man who is clearly wrapped up in his own head, muttering to himself as he angrily prunes away at leaves on some smaller, potted specimens.
"I should have known this would happen," he grumbles in clear irritation, his tone absolutely embittered. Carlisle shifts the pot around to get a better angle on what needs to be cut away, removed for the betterment of the entire fern. Wouldn't that be something, to remove what -- or who -- poisons the entire city with his presence as easily as he removes those dying leaves?
Carlisle pushes his glasses to his forehead and paws at his eyes a moment, setting aside his shears to wipe his free hand on his gardening apron. That's not a productive thought, and he knows it, yet there it is all the same, a torrent of negative self-reflection threatening to pull him under. Would Emily still be here if he hadn't known her? Would Kate? Was there really no correlation, as she is always so apt to—
Was, Carlisle corrects inwardly. Emily was so apt to tell him that, just as Glacius is. How long will it be now until he brings misfortune to his icy partner, as well? Or to anyone else? Is there anything to even be done about it now? He has long lived with the knowledge that he is the failure of his bloodline, and that a cursed creature such as himself would only bring ill upon those closest to him. He'd thought that, perhaps, he could escape such a fate away from his world. He'd toyed with the idea that he had been led astray his whole life when people claimed him to be the reason his family line will die with him. He'd wondered, even for a moment, if he could be more than the most pathetic of the Longinmouth line, the weak link in a once-strong chain.
However, as he hurls one of his plants as far as he can throw it and rubs at his bleary eyes again, choking on the breath lodged somewhere in his throat, Carlisle decides he was clearly wrong to ever consider such nonsense.
Speakeasy [open]
The evening is spent searching for liquor. With the former bar gone, Carlisle makes his way to the Speakeasy, ready to drown his problems in his former vices. He knows better -- he knows his partner would be disappointed Carlisle didn't turn to him for solace from his deprecating thoughts. However, the more the despondent Carlisle considers pulling out his communicator and just calling Glacius... the more nervous he gets. Emily was close to Glacius, as well, and the alien is no doubt hurting from her loss... but what if he's no longer in the list of names, either? What if he's gone?
That's paranoia talking, Carlisle reminds himself... and yet, with how unnerved he is from the mere thought of the panic that will set in the second he sees Glacius' name is no longer among the residents of the city, he finds he cannot even bring himself to see if his fears are even valid. Not right now. Not yet.
Maybe after he's had a drink.
Though Carlisle does have a bottle sitting before him on a table in the corner, the hours tick by without him imbibing. He's instead sitting back there, still incessantly chattering to himself -- or maybe he's talking to the bottle at this point. It does have a cat's head sculpted right into the glass. It gives it character.
"I should- I should just do it," he mutters, his nails curling against the table as he runs his other hand through his hair for the umpteenth time; it is more unkempt than usual, his fastidiousness unraveling with this composure. "I don't know what I'm afraid of."
He seems to reconsider that lie within one second, as though the cat-bottle would judge him for his lack of conviction. "I mean, I know what I'm afraid of, but. I- I should trust he's fine. He's always fine. The sort who can accomplish anything he puts his mind to. In fact, he'll call me anytime now, surely."
Yes, anytime. And yet, despite this being the one time he hopes technology will come to his rescue, his communicator doesn't ring.
Apartment 401 [for
glacius]And by the time the late evening rolls around and the night is in full swing, Carlisle has worked himself into near panic. He barely manages to get inside his apartment, his hands shaking so badly that he can hardly maneuver the keys into the lock. "It's fine," he says aloud -- with no one, plant or otherwise, to talk to this time, he is absolutely talking to himself. That's not unusual, all things considered. "It's fine. Glacius is fine. He'll- he'll probably be waiting as it is. Back from his patrol, I'm sure. Hah, what took you so long, Carlisle? That's what he'll say. And I'll see this has all been for nothing. I mean, not nothing, as Emily is still gone. Still my fault she's gone, by the way. It's fine. It's just fine."
Unfortunately, the dwelling is empty when Carlisle finally gets the door open. His mind works into overdrive to keep himself from completely breaking down as panic latches onto him. "He's asleep," he reassures himself now, tossing aside his bag and heading right to Glacius' door. It's not like the alien to go to bed before Carlisle gets home, but then, it's not like Glacius to not call, nor is it like him to not be home already, nor is it like anything for Emily to just be up and gone. What a strange day it's been!
Carlisle knocks at the door, the nervous smile plastered across his face fading as fast as that brief, denial-born glimmer of flippant humor. "Glacius? I'm sorry I'm home so late. I- I stopped, er. Somewhere. Lost track of the time. Funny how that happens here in a cave."
Silence.
"I'll admit that, ah," he continues, stumbling over his words. He claws at the back of his neck with one hand, the other fumbling with his tabard. "It was the Speakeasy. Little place run by Miss Rey. You remember her, I'm sure, being on the Guard with her and all. Fantastic woman, sometimes. Not much of a conversationalist. She's got her merits, though."
Further silence. Carlisle fidgets uncomfortably, tension mounting in his shoulders.
"I- I didn't mean to break my word to you. I didn't drink. I mean- maybe just one swallow to take my mind off- well, there's been a lot on it today, actually. I- I should have called you, but- but I- I started thinking about, um. I just happened to notice today that Emily's name isn't in the phone anymore. Funny thing, really. And I wanted to call you with the communicator, but you know how I am with technology and... whatnot."
The clergyman pauses there, inwardly praying for an answer as the seconds tick by, the thudding in his chest growing painful the heavier it gets. Disappointment, irritation, remorse, anything. He pushes the door open when nothing comes. "... Glacius?" Though the icy bedroom is still there -- and still relatively icy -- the alien who usually inhabits it is nowhere to be found. He's out far later than he should be, Carlisle thinks to himself, trying to swallow the knot in his throat; it doesn't budge.
A shaky laugh forces itself out of Carlisle as he breaks the silence himself once more. "Something m- must have happened," he mumbles, trembling as horror sets in before it even has a full foundation. "Just- just a busy day for the Guard. I'll just- I'll just call, and it'll- it'll be fine."
Oh, but calling would require him to look at the list of names, he remembers, the reason he hasn't already made that call back to torture him once more as it paints a clear scenario in his mind's eye. Looking at that list would result in him not finding Glacius' name on it, surely. He'd deny it as much as he did earlier, searching the contacts again and again, but to no avail. And then he'd panic -- catastrophically so, as with the recent bout of frights, but far worse -- and that'd be just awful. It could be the easy solution, the logical part of him says; it could also be a shortcut to utter despair that he is currently not equipped to handle.
And where does that leave Carlisle Longinmouth, heir of the Longinmouth estate, in the wee hours of the morning? Hiding in his closet. It's a little cramped for his tall stature, but at least there's nothing to be terrified of in there -- nothing but the utter hopelessness consuming his own mind as he mutters another desperate prayer to his goddess. He doesn't know if she can hear him... but it's better than the thought that he might be alone.
no subject
He asks that off-handedly, his eyes back on the cat-faced bottle as he reaches for it, his fingers wrapping lightly around the sculpted glass. Desth, he could use a drink. He answers his own question before waiting for one from Rey:
"Her name was Emily, and she deserved both better than this place, and better than where she returned to. If she returned at all."
no subject
She stops what she is doing herself when Carlisle goes for the bottle, sending him a querying look. It's like he's warring with himself over whether to take a drink or not. A struggle and reluctance that, in some way, confirms her suspicion.
Is it really her business to say anything at all? Not really. But she'd hate to get an earful from Glacius or any of his other friends who are dealing with this problem.
For the time being, she just watches, arms folded. "You were friends with Emily?" That's funny. She didn't seem like someone who was easy to get chummy with. "What makes you think she wouldn't have returned?"
Though not without his reasons, she's aware of Carlisle's disposition with the ones he calls 'false gods'.
no subject
"Who can truly say if the gods and their Door will send us home every time?" he asks. "Or that there aren't those who die, and no one would be the wiser as to what happened to them? When they do not return, what are we to assume?"
no subject
"Was sent home and came back before. Have known others who have also come and gone and returned again. Sometimes after a few months, or days," she replies, nonchalant. Then, she's more sincere. "But you're right -- we don't always know if that's the case for everyone. Even some people who come from the same world can go back to a different timeline and outcome."
Not the most comforting, is she?
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"And then there are those of us who are sent somewhere else entirely. Not home, but to a different imprisonment."
And given Rey hs met at least two people fitting that description, Carlisle doesn't expect he has to explain that one to her.
no subject
"In this 'other imprisonment' you've mentioned before -- did people disappear from there as well, like they do here?"
At least she does catch his meaning quick.
no subject
And yes, he includes going home as part of the terrible trio of ways one might depart places like the Tranquility and Hadriel. For some, home is not a very good place to be.
no subject
"Admittedly, we never talked much about our homes, save for the wendigo shit from her world. Wasn't sure whether or not the place she has to return to is for better or worse."
Rey's relationship with Emily didn't go very far beyond casual exchanges and her wolf. Damn, is the wolf gone now, too?
no subject
It apparently goes farther than his as he finally gets the cap off that cat-faced bottle and pours himself a drink.
no subject
"So, what? Intending to drink your sorrows away now? Try and forget about it?"
And fail, obviously. This is an ailment that not even alcohol can cure.
no subject
And he has preferred such methods in the past, time and time again. They don't offer him a permanent solution, but numbing his mind with liquor gives him at least a temporary respite from his own thoughts, ones that are so demanding of his attention. His nerves would bleed him dry if he would allow them to.
But rather than find a productive way to curb his anxiety or actually deal with his problems, he turns to what he has done time and time again. He has always been a creature slow to change.
At least he seems to realize it. "I am aware this is only a temporary truce with my sorrows. I may forget about them for a time, but they are still there."
no subject
Such is the way of things.
"You know what they say -- first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem." She pulls up a glass of her own, and begins pouring another drink for herself. "They say that misery loves company, too."
Some would probably think it bad business practice to sample your own wears too much. But then, this whole establishment is a sad example of a business, so what does it matter?
no subject
And down the hatch it goes, the entire glass in one take. Fire blossoms in his throat, igniting his chest from the inside out. It's a welcome warmth to fight the chill he's felt at the back of his neck all day.
Another will help settle his nerves; he pours it out carefully. "And what it is you have to be miserable about these days, Miss Rey?"
no subject
And then he downs that glass like a champ. Though Rey didn't peg the cleric for the type who'd drink like a college boy at a fraternity mixer before, she's found herself learning new things more and more.
She snorts, at his query, before taking a long drink of her own, but doesn't kick it back the same way Carlisle just did.
"Who the hell here doesn't have shit to be miserable about?" Rey quips, shamelessly evasive.
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"That is true, isn't it?" he asks, returning the cap to the cat-faced bottle. It'll be removed again in a moment, no doubt. "What with monsters and murders and whatever the false gods will put us through next."
And, of course, one murder in particular is still on his mind. He sighs, staring into his glass, wondering if Shadow has returned yet... or if he will return at all.
no subject
Rey isn't blind. She pays attention to the network as much as she takes note of things between their little discussions.
That is true as well, right? There are things that they bring on themselves; things that they can't even blame the gods for.
no subject
Down goes a half of his glass, a drink not even contemplated before being taken. It's so easy to fall back into old, bad habits, methods of coping he turned to for years. He has to admit that it feels good for now -- familiar. The guilt will him him later, he is sure.
"I never wanted him dead," he finally says in a voice barely above a whisper.
no subject
"Don't. He's not worth it," she quips, fingers wrapping around the neck of the bottle Carlisle had been drinking out of. "The only reason he ended up that way is because he was stupid enough to go looking for a fight with someone who can't die. You didn't make him do that, even if you did want him dead."
Who knows? If it wasn't Sato, it could have been anyone else. Could have been Danse, or Glacius, or Carlisle. Anyone who he has a beef with.
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"I did not make him do it, no," he agrees, "but I cannot say I did not have a hand in pushing him toward whatever madness it was that possessed him that day."
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Rey doesn't budge, physically or figuratively.
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And speculate, he has: "Perhaps, if I'd taught him to heal, he'd still be alive." He turns his glass as he caters to his nerves, inwardly wishing he had a few more drinks to quiet them. "He could have mended his wounds, or maybe he'd have not fought at all, having found some purpose for his energies."
Carlisle makes no mention of what that would have meant for him personally -- he cannot even consider it when Shadow is dead and he thinks himself at fault in some way.
no subject
"And perhaps he'd have not been able to pick up on your teachings, and taken that out on you instead of Sato. If he had the ability to mend his wounds, he could pick all the fights he wanted at the time with little regard for his own life, because that's what we do with that sort of shit," Rey says through her teeth. "Do you really think someone who threatened you to teach him that shit is going to use it for a better purpose than what he just did anyway?"
Regardless of what Shadow would have done, it's neither here nor there. But there's no point in being sad about it, and Rey isn't wasting any of her energy feeling sorry for the idiot.
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"That's what we do," he repeats, his eyes narrowing as his temper flares, fighting back the good reasoning he knows to be true. "Were you born to be as destructive as he was, then? Were you constructed to be one way, and have never aspired to be anything more? There is so much more one can do if given the opportunity, and I cannot help but wonder if I should have let him have that much, at the very least."
He's touching on some points that are far too close to home for him, the failed heir of the Longinmouth line, and decides he'd rather swallow those down with the rest of his drink. When that doesn't sate his irritation, he goes for the bottle again.
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So her fingers just squeeze around the bottle when Carlisle makes to grab it. Her knuckles turn white, and the bottle remains as though glued to its spot on the counter. Any more and she could break the glass, but restrains herself out of necessity.
"Yes."
The questions Carlisle presents not only serve to reveal more of the puzzle to her, but flare up her anger as well. Anger towards Shadow, towards his treatment of others, even his suggestion that she use violence against her own family. All of it.
Her eyes narrow, and she snarls. "Was 'born' underground, with bodies constructed of immortal cells. Weapons development shit. Used by people. Manipulated. Killed and hurt loved ones, oftentimes because there was someone who willed it. Despite all of that, would never take someone's freedom away. Ever. There's no excuse to be as bad as the bastards who pulled your strings.
"You should have 'let him have that much'? Fuck that. You don't just expect people to give that to you because you had a shit life -- you fucking earn it."
Seems those points aren't just close to Carlisle's home; they're hers, too. Old and worn and changed by it, made new.
You are a vessel, an empty husk not yet made whole.
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"I- I'm sorry, Miss Rey. I didn't- I didn't realize that you- that your- I mean, I should have expected, I suppose, given your, um. Hm."
He'll get out a clear thought eventually. He tries again. "I didn't mean to dredge up bad memories."
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