when the final moments of time start to tick down, you find yourself not so much reeling. you stand quietly with your hands folded behind your back, your vote already cast, shoulder to shoulder with someone else.
you are aching - your face burns, and an injury on you throbs, and there's a twinge of pain in your hand from something that's not quite an injury, but something purposefully inflicted, but you're used to staying stone faced through pain, and this is no exception - this is nothing. just for a moment, you think back on what led you to this place. how you chose to trust someone and didn't all the same; how you made a foolish decision, but you had a safety net to catch you not of your own making, for the first time in your life. how your safety net didn't just save you, they did so with style, with aplomb. how fucking grateful you feel. how odd, how warm, how unfamiliar it feels.
the chosen name comes up. guilty. you feel the phrase more than you see it.
you lift your head for a moment, as your hand slips into someone else's. even with your senses shot - and they are shot - you feel the familiarity of the person holding your hand, incense-and-lavender-and-too-many-bathbombs-and-wine, and you relax. their fingers brush across your palm, and they spell the phrase - the name of the guilty party, and then lace their hand into yours.
someone walks by. you can smell them in the air over the burning scent of pepper - familiar, an ice cold scent, and familiar in the way they walk and move. you don't have to see it. it's dark, but you feel them walk by.
and you know this isn't over -
you find your mouth sliding into a smirk, just a blink and you'll miss it expression, as the hand in yours pulls back, and you make eye contact as they lead the accused away. long enough to let him know that you see him. (even though you don't.)
- this isn't over, but you won.
and not on his terms, but on yours.
you had no doubts, but even still; when you make promises, you deliver. you don't lose. you can't. you have a nation that needs you and...
you have had trouble throughout your life resisting a temptation. you allow yourself two particular vices, both of which come with consequences. but this vice is your survival - good or bad or otherwise, you need it like a drowning man needs air. you have to have it. your chance is coming, and who knows how long you'll be trapped here? it has already been weeks, and you're playing the game with a handicap.
you can't have that.
truthfully, you've known from the start that this was going to end this way. there was no other story where you did the unselfish thing; where you listened to advice, where you took their offer, their kindness, where you put yourself into their capable hands, because your closely guarded self is so vulnerable, and you can't allow anyone else to solve it for you when the solution is right there. you couldn't resist at home. you can't resist here. the ability to have a taste of normalcy is just one night away.
you choose carefully. a target that needs to be eliminated. it's nothing personal; you have something you need, and you'll strike the target down with precision to ensure that it becomes yours. you've always been a planner. you've started the seeds of your trap days in advance.
when the night comes, you take an unfamiliar weapon. the world around you is pitch black and quiet - but you're used to that, aren't you? but maybe just the feeling of anticipation that makes everything seem faint. you take a deep breath, and focus on the wind, on the way the air moves through the vents, through the hallways. on the slightly sterile smell of this place you've grown used to. turn left there. turn right there. there's a jut in the hallway right here. keep up appearances. keep moving. there's something else, too - something just unnatural. just this side of iron tinged. you stand in that little room with the weapon in your hand.
and when the doors open, you feel the wind and you know your target is in front of you. you are unhesitating as you dash forward. you are skilled, and even if your target is just as ferocious, you will survive this. you will survive this. you will survive this.
(what's a promise made to three, four people, when you're used to carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders? where does your fate lead you?
not to your deathbed, here. not to your capture. you'll pull this off. you'll get away with it, you'll do what you've been asked, no matter how heavy the burden, no matter how difficult the task.
the world around you tastes and smells like blood. it smells like pond water. it's a horrible combination, and you know it because you inhale, and it's filling your lungs. you can't see anything - but god, you can feel everything. there's a hand in your hair, and it's gripping, gripping tight, pressing downwards, and there's water in your lungs and you are going to drown.
it burns. it burns. your eyes burn. your ears are burning. your lungs are burning - tight, tight, you can't breathe. you think that you're going to die, like this, bubbles coming out of your screaming mouth and you're so angry and bitter and you won't die you won't you won't -
- and then, up, you come up. you gasp for air, and you can't tell if the water streaming down your face is from the pond or tears, as your heart rattles in your ribcage and you cough, as your ears ring and the world above water looks no different from below.
there's a voice. it's a familiar voice, and it says something, but you can't hear it, it's garbled and angry and it grabs onto your hair and pulls again and then throws you downwards. "Submerge yourself until you figure out how to", you catch, snarled, from the voice. you cough, again, heaving, breathing, alive, alive, alive, and the voice continues, this time so close that you're forced to hear every single word -
""Either you will learn to stand up, or you will find a place to hang yourself" -
and every single world drives itself into your heart like an iron nail. ]
you are, after all, silver tongued. you are a talker. someone with charisma, someone charming and clever, someone who tells stories and enraptures people, someone with quick wits and quicker fingers. you have found your way into situations and found your way back out of them a thousand times, but this is different.
you sit at a festival, on a grassy hill. something about it isn't quite right, but to you, it's still warm, and it's still home, and seeing him there makes your heart ache, in a way that's too big for your chest, in a way that has made you fumble, over and over, since you met this person. this interesting, fascinating, incredible person.
the two of you have a conversation. it skirts around its main point. you give him something, and you play it cool. it's a meaningful gift, and you joke like you always do as you give it. you don't tell him that you're pouring your heart out alongside with it, that this is the biggest feeling that you've ever known and, childishly, you are absolutely terrified he won't like it -
- but he does.
he does, he really likes it, and he sniffs, and then he cracks a little joke and you think i am in love with you and then you just say it out loud.
it's so embarrassing that you think you might die, at first, that you might just melt into the floor as your tongue goes ahead of your brain and you feel as exposed as if you've just run naked down the street of a city. your face colors immediately, scarlet red, but you run with it and you keep running your mouth, to try and save it, again. you pull your hand back, embarrassed, as you finish, and decide to shut up while the shutting up is good.
he blinks at you, and then he laughs and ducks his head, clearly just as flustered, and where you let go, he reaches back out and slides his hand into yours again, and starts to talk.
... and as he's talking to you, you realize very quickly that though you're both idiots, that maybe you've fumbled your way successfully through this after all.
Both of you are injured. You've been lucky to be able to access a little bit of stabilizing healing, but you only stayed long enough to be stable, and have been by her side ever since. Once she was awake, you crawled onto the bed beside her and put your arm around her shoulders and held her for a moment, reeling over the pain and suffering you'd experienced just hours before. The physical wounds were nothing, in comparison. Nothing, compared to the way her voice warbles when she relays the facts of what she saw. Nothing, compared to how you watched her die in front of you, powerless to do anything.
... And you're very new at this. And, you think she is too - neither of you have had much in the way of love in your lives. You got into a fight barely an hour ago, and now you're sitting in this medical care area, trying to mend up something, trying to understand the enormity of what it means to care about other people.
She says, quietly. "Thank you, for attempting to understand my regrettable methods of displaying sentiment."
That makes you smile. Maybe you get it because you're just as bad at it. Maybe you've just become irreplaceably fond. Maybe because it's nice - to know someone's good and bad, and to know that they're cut from the same cloth as you, in the worst ways and the best.
... It's nice, to have a sibling.
"...Glad this place brought me you." You finally say, turning your head to look at her. She laughs - the noise is rough, but it's there - and leans into you a little further and closes her eyes. Protectiveness surges in your chest, fierce and loving.
"You are not so unpleasant yourself, I guess."
And you laugh, and you give her the tiniest jostle, and you hold onto this brat who's become one of your own.
[ Standing in a little cave at the end of a conflict, you are perfectly calm.
You glance to your left. Someone stands beside you; you say something to him quietly, and he nods, turning to walk up to a loft area above where you have found yourself. You trust him to do his job; you turn to look instead at the situation in this little hideout.
In front of you are fifty some odd bandits, captured and defeated - their leader is at the end of their line. They've caused trouble beyond measure, lately - for you, for the people in the closest village, innocent civilians - and on top of that, they have information. It's information you need, and you will have it.
You tilt your head, glancing across the bandits, and when you speak, your voice is calm. Casual, even. Relaxed. "I only have one question. How many entrances and exits do you have in these underground rats' nests? Please be aware of your current situation."
Silence.
You smile, but it's not a real smile. "Let's do it this way. Starting from the first person on the west side - behead him on the spot if he refuses to talk. When the first person is finished, the next can add more details. If one can't add anything more, then, that's too bad. The ones at the front of the line may have some advantage - let's start. I'll count to three - not talking will result in being cut down. Talking nonsense will result in being cut down."
You can almost feel the current of fear in the room tick up a notch, and you keep your arms behind your back, and you watch. One of your men steps forward, weapon in hand, and the first bandit looks stunned - he is indecisive, looking at his leader.
You count. "One. Two."
You make a downward, decisive gesture with your hand - and an ally of yours, clothed the same as you, steps forward and slashes through the bandit's neck with his weapon. The soldier has some difficulty - the bandit's vocal chords don't initially split, and the bandit's bloodcurdling scream ricochets through the mountain as it takes a fully powered strike to behead him.
The second bandit shakily points to an underground tunnel entrance right behind you, as his friend's head rolls in front of his feet. You don't have time for this. You click your tongue.
"Nonsense. Can I not see it for myself?" It comes with a sneer as you make the gesture. Down goes another, this time smoothly, head separated from neck in the blink of an eye.
One by one, the remaining bandits drop information. The third man squeals like a rat, dropping several tunnels locations; you work your way methodically down the line, until you've removed the heads of ten or so men, stubborn to their ends, and left the rest trembling as they're trussed up to be thrown in prison. When you reach the leader of the bandits, he straightens and looks you in the eye.
You walk over casually, arms behind your back, as if this was a stroll through a garden instead of an interrogation, as if you walked through flowers, instead of a river of blood of your own creation. (And truthfully, a part of you is shocked it has taken this much, but you're too smart to think otherwise. A part of you is too tired for the violence that has to come from this moment, but you think about the village, and the you think about the people that you've sworn to protect, the position you uphold, and you know that violence is what will clear this rat's nest for good.)
The leader clears his throat. He tries to be proud. "I used to hear people say that your elegance was unparalleled. I did not expect that you'd be well versed even in torture methods for interrogation; truly, the more talents, the better."
Amused, you reply, "There's no need for flattery. The main activity in war is to slay people, isn't it? I didn't lock you in a dark room. Didn't place you on a nail bed, nor did I ask you to sit on a tiger's chair. The words torture to interrogate - I don't dare to accept them."
The bandit leader's eye twitches.
You know there's more to this interrogation than sixty-four tunnels and sixty-four entrances. You know there's more. There's no way these bandits could have gotten access to all of the supplies they had, without help from the inside. That is what you're interested in.
The soldier's blade lowers beside the man's neck, and your smile, cold and ruthless, remains, as you step in front of him and lower your voice. It's ice.
"If you have nothing to say, you can accompany your men as well."
The leader clenches his teeth - and you know that you have him.
❝ And now look at me. Lying back and thinking of Great Liang: how's that for service to your country? ❞
STR: 15
CON: 19
INT: 17
WIS: 12
DEX: 16
CHA: 20
GUEST INFO
AGE:
23
HEIGHT:
175cm
WEIGHT:
Light Armor Class
OCCUPATION:
Marquis of Order, Marshal of the Black Iron Camp
PERSONAL EFFECT:
Iron Eagle
SUITCASE
A hairpin.
NOTABLE SKILLS
Military leadership, weapons (includes flute), pretending to be deaf, marksmanship, literary arts, giving and receiving daddy issues, acting, self-poisoning, filial piety, romancing fantasy creatures, being beautiful, being obnoxious, chaos, order
[ you aren't someone who has known much love in your life. not truthfully, not really. you haven't been loved because you were ostracized, set aside from others for your abnormal background, your otherness in a sea of perfection.
when she loves you, it's bright, and it's warm, and she tells you so, effusively. you don't doubt her, but, you can't bring yourself to say it back - not because you don't feel the same, either, but because maybe you don't really know what that feels like. have you ever known what that feels like?
after all, every time someone in your life has loved you - has really loved you - it's never lasted. whether by death or by betrayal, one way or another, no one ever loved you unless it was out of obligation, and you decided you would wrench respect out of them, instead. force them to see you as formidable and powerful, as strong and unbreakable.
so when you receive love, you don't know what to do with it.
when she looks up at you - takes in a hiccup of a breath, when you ask the question that you already know the answer to - some part of you wonders if this was ever going to be any different.
but you can't show her that. you pack it up in a box, set it aside, and cooly continue your line of questioning.
...but as it turns out, your heart isn't formed from iron. when she breaks down on you, you feel a part of it break - because the truth is that you love her, you love her more than you think you can say in words, and you wonder if you're just as foolish as your grandfather who came before you.
stubbornly, you don't want to be. stubbornly, you want to be better, and as you sort through the fatal ache of your own emotions, you find yourself thinking i'll be the one to set this right. you make a promise to yourself, right there, as she cries and holds onto you like an island in a storm, that there's only one way for this to end - and it's victory. ]
this memory is strange, because something about it is wrong.
you're plunged into almost pitch darkness, immediately. there's no image. there's nothing to see. not only that, but it is almost completely silent - you can hear muffled noises, like you're underwater, and the occasional word that's sharper. you're used to this, though. as you apply your focus, you can hear a word or two. you can fill in the blanks. you're used to it.
... however.
the world around you is filled with sensation. haven't you ever noticed?
the room you're in smells like a variety of essential oils. it's warm, a little humid - you can detect chlorine, the faint smell of running water, even something just barely fishy. that's the lowest layer. shampoo. scented soaps. beyond that - nearby, you smell a bit of flowered perfume, a familiar scent that's a little sharp, a little dangerous. a little bit of gold, like jewels, like coins. you smell something warm, like the embers of a hearth, closest to you, something inviting, something you've sought so much comfort in. grave dirt, a little further away, something that smells like death, but familiar, crisp and cool. the next closest; incense, lavender, a bit of wine, something heady, a scent that's helped you relax over the weeks and helped you sleep, not that you'd ever tell the person that.
every time someone moves, you feel it. the faintest brush of wind against your skin triangulates your location. you feel the warm, ember smell person move against your lap, you feel her moving something - her hand, and you twitch your fingers so her palm presses against yours, and pull them to your mouth, pressing your lips to her knuckles. you feel the way she relaxes.
the incense smell is close by, too. that person shifts, you feel it, and they lean a little against you, the three of you so easily close. you've become used to this sort of affection, now, in the best way that you can, and the both of them send flutters through you that make you a little dizzy, because you're so unfamiliar with the concept no matter how good you are at lying about it. you close your eyes and you smile, and you focus every bit of your energy on paying attention to the world around you in the way you only know how to, as you've done for a week.
it could be your last night like this. you intend to enjoy it the best that you can.
(it won't be your last night, though. you just refuse to allow that possibility. you have planned. you have laid your trap, and you will be successful, no matter what the night you'll be awake has ahead. you want to enjoy these fleeting little moments so much longer, and you'll be damned if you don't.)
you've never allowed yourself to be helpless. not once in your life. anytime you've been knocked down, you've clawed your way back up to health, to full capacity, in ways that for any normal person might have been impossible. but you weren't allowed to be normal, were you? never. duty and honor hang on your shoulders like a mantle. there is no helpless. you are the help.
that night, the two of you end up stuck together because of a stupid curse. its funny, at the time; she's exhausted, and she giggles sleepily and screws up a metaphor so badly that it puts you in almost hysterics, and you hold her in your arms. you've always found it so much easier to sleep when she's there. comforting. safe. warm. home. it feels like you all are coming up on a breakthrough. there are no more secrets between you; the relief is palpable. you find yourself overcome with how much you love her. the transgression was long forgiven, and you close your eyes and make a promise to yourself to defend her from whatever comes tomorrow, no matter what it might mean.
but none of that matters when the morning comes.
it comes with the shriek of a creature - an entity you've seen once or twice, now, a beady eyed, beaked thing. it screams in your face and it grabs her, and you have exactly two seconds to take in the look of absolute terror on her face. you've never been slow to action - you move, you move, and the thing hits you with something. like an electric shock, it shoots down your spine and you're paralyzed.
as it grabs her in its claws and rips her out of your arms, and she screams, and tries to break free, but it busts back the way it came through the vents, and you're left frozen and staring, furious and heart pounding and horrified and lost and
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
AQUILA | PINK PANTHER.MP3
no subject
no subject
AQUILA | DROWNING.
AQUILA | cotton mouth.
AQUILA (OG/NG) + "SHE'S MY SISTER".
AQUILA | interrogation.
i just wanted to fill this out for meeee
❝ And now look at me. Lying back and thinking of Great Liang: how's that for service to your country? ❞
AQUILA | LOVE.
AQUILA | as a bat.
AQUILA | taken away.