voidgates | IC Inbox

Am I. That sounds an awful lot like a duty to me.

[But she's not tugging on her arm anymore. And she doesn't really like him any more than he seems to like her, frankly, and maybe this is a terrible idea, but it's — convenient. It's the most efficient solution to the problem at hand, however stupid it might be. And it's one that might mean she doesn't have to lose herself in thoughts of people turning to stone anymore, that might mean when she inevitably tells G'raha about this, it's something to laugh about rather than to feel guilty over.]

You could just help me. Tolerate it until I can get by again.

[She lets out a slow, ragged breath.]

It's the fastest way to be rid of me, if you won't let me go as I am.

Aye, as I'm an annoyance and... hah, a convenience for your use. [ There's a hint of bitterness that creeps into his tone. Though really, this is of his own making. He's still more comfortable as a leaning post than as an actual person.

He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing out a frustrated sigh. ]

You're not gonna like synchrony with me, and I don't like doin' it at all. You've better options, from this mate of yours to a fuckin' stranger on the street. Choose one of them.

Do you suppose I'd like it more or less than turning to stone? Do you know what it looks like? I do.

[Though mayhap he has a point, she considers at length. Synchrony with Raha had been...euphoric, in its fashion, and that had really only been the barest surface hint of what she assumes it could be. The joy he'd felt, seeing her again. The relief. The waves of it, how she'd felt them while all the while knowing they weren't really hers, and how that still didn't matter in the slightest.

Happiness. He'd been happy, and it'd worked. And maybe that means Ezar is right. How could something like that be good for them, if right now neither one of them is happy?]

...You liked falling. Before. From the building.

[He'd laughed, hadn't he...? And slowly, almost thoughtfully, she drags her arm out of his hold and turns her hand palm-up in offering.]

Show me how it felt.

[ He gives her a look that communicates eloquently, of course he knows what that looks like, he's been a soldier for ten years and he's seen a lot of shit.

Then she's offering her hand and... he wants to take it, a sudden hunger sharper than his need for manna. It was so much easier before this place, when he'd been alone with no recourse. Every time he has to refuse this step, it's more difficult, his will wearing away to nothing.

His expression shifts, not anger or annoyance or frustration, but sadness and... exhaustion. ]

Please don't do this.

[ With his defenses stripped away, he's nothing at all. ]

Edited 2022-06-08 02:05 (UTC)

You don't even have to do it for me.

[Her arm feels a little like it's going to fall off, if she has to continue keeping it suspended like this much longer, but if she lets it drop right now, she'll lose him and she knows it.]

Just think about how it felt. You don't have to think about me at all.

You don't get it.

[ But she's won. He hates himself for being so weak, and he hates her for making use of him when she could have just saved them both by calling her gods-damned mate, isn't that what mates are supposed to be for--

He takes her hand. And from him, the synchrony flares up like a wildfire, because it's never just the synchrony, it's that power he has that he only knows how to control by cutting it off entirely, and it roars.

There's nothing joyful in what he offers, nothing welcoming, because if she's cornered him into this, she gets what she gets. Him making it easy on her would have been helping her get to someone who wasn't him. It's isolation and guilt and crushing despair and the dragging weight of exhaustion, it's the frustration of needing to be alone and simultaneously hating his own loneliness, of wishing all of it would cease, that he could cease, that-- ]

When I fall.

[ And this, at least, he will give her, what she asked for. The precious seconds of nothingness, of no thoughts or feelings as the wind tears water from his eyes, the glory of having given himself wholly into the mercy of the firmament, the hope that he will never land. ]

I'm free.

Edited 2022-06-08 03:04 (UTC)

[He's right. She doesn't get it — and, as with so many things in her life, Summer flies too high and falls hard as a result.

She doesn't know what she'd expected. A flicker of joy, maybe, like a candle flame in the darkness. Something he clings to in the midst of whatever makes him so surly, something he hides away and keeps for himself like she's hidden the secret of her own name. She'd assumed, maybe, that falling for him was like falling is for her — the rush, the weightlessness, the laughter bubbling up as she climbs high, high, higher, the way she only really learns how far she was able to go by how far she falls once she's reached it.

But this is —

This is like finding herself plunged beneath Coerthas ice, down into the frigid deep, sucked under until her limbs go stiff from the chill and the weight of the water presses in around her, until she couldn't breathe even if she tried. This is drowning, and falling isn't salvation from it; it's just forgetting, escaping the reality of it only for as long as the falling lasts before the ground comes rushing up below.

His loneliness floods into her, finds her own, forces it to resonate — and it doesn't hurt because loneliness never hurts because there's nothing for it to strike against to begin with. It's empty and hollow and if anything it aches, the phantom pain of something that's supposed to be there but isn't.

And the worst part is that it's still Synchrony. It still works. She can't let go, can't pull away, because it still brings feeling back into her weary limbs, strength back into her wobbling knees. It means he's given her something twice now — protected her twice now, two different ways, and her balance sheet is coming up short by comparison.]

Until you land. And you always land.

[She ought to let go of him, to escape this herself, and stubbornly, she holds on instead.]

And you wish you wouldn't.

Too stubborn to die.

[ He shrugs, like it doesn't matter. And maybe it doesn't. The one time he should have died, he knows he died... he woke up here. He doesn't get to stop, not yet. He still owes the world too much.

He's surprised she hasn't let go, suspicious, but if she wants to drown a little longer, that's her decision. He's too tired to fight any more. And in a way, he's horribly, pathetically grateful that for one moment he isn't alone, even if this is just a pale mockery of the home he once had, this holding hands with a woman who is using him in her own way just as surely se he was used in the dark days that followed the calamity.

The secret of it is easy to divine, for anyone who can wade through the emotional flood. He doesn't hate other people, not really. He simply hates himself and projects it outward, so that he can maintain that isolation that is simultaneously refuge and punishment.

He hates this thing, and he hates that she's seeing him for what he is, but there's some part of him that's just as pathetically grateful that there was one person he could actually help, even a little. That there was someone he could almost care for in his broken and fumbling way. His failures are so broad that he counts his smallest successes like a dragon hoarding gold. ]

Next time, call your mate. If he worries at you, it's because he cares about you.

Let him care in his own way.

Oh. I should let him care about me?

[She almost laughs. Almost. Not because it's funny, or because she even really remembers what laughter feels like in the wake of Ezar's torrent of despair. But the very absurdity of the notion cuts a fine glittering line through the center of it like a well-placed swipe of a very sharp sword, like a thread of starry darkness through a sea of overpowering light.]

You have no idea. As though I could make him stop.

[She shifts her hand slightly, weaves their fingers together like a threat, and holds on — and wrests from Ezar, for just a fleeting span of moments, control over the flow of the Synchrony between them, emboldened by the singular sentiment that runs as deep inside her as his self-hatred runs inside him.

What she returns, then, through the connection forged between them, isn't words or images or even really an emotion. It's possessiveness, fierce as a wildfire, burning in counterpoint to the emptiness and isolation she's carried all her life, herself: the unparalleled elation of having found mine, mine, my thing, and the fangs she's bared when someone, anyone, anything, dared to take it away from her.

It's not that she has anything to prove. It changes nothing, showing this to him. But for a span of moments, it's her turn to flood the link between them, overpowering and overwhelming the ache of despair for as long as it rages and flows.

It's something different. It's unmistakably hers.

And maybe, just maybe, there's a measure of silence for him in that as well.]

Then why are you doing this to me?

[ He's bewildered, and even moreso with what she pushes back at him through the synchrony. If that's what she has, then why? Why grasp for something so prickly and deeply inadequate when she has something that's hers? That's good?

Yet it is still a relief, to feel something that isn't him, because that's all he ever really wants is to not be him. Anything but him.

It would be too easy to crawl into this like a shelter and hide there, never leaving. But he knows it isn't for him and it's only slight breath of fresh air that will soon be gone. Like the fall, it will end and he will once again be nothing but, unfortunately, Ezar. ]

I'm glad for you.

[ It is a true statement; he knows how to be happy for the fortune of others even from his own mire, and it is truly good for someone whose loneliness he can recognize to find what she has. Though he is certainly no saint, either. He may be glad for what she has for her sake, but there is a small and deeply unworthy part of him that sparks up jealousy, and far more that wishes, that longs--

It's too much, to be in such radiance. He closes his eyes, swallowing thickly. This makes him want things that he does not deserve to want. ]

And I'm sorry.

[ That he has nothing good in him to give, nothing joyful beyond the freedom of the dive, of the battle litany carrying him away to a place beyond thought where in its flow of syllables nothing hurts.

Told you that you'd be disappointed. ]

Edited (I am done editing it I promise) 2022-06-08 16:08 (UTC)

Because you think you know everything and you don't.

[It's strange the way the Synchrony between them has started to feel — not like a battle, not exactly, but like a clash of something elemental and fierce. The drowning depths of his self-loathing pitted against the wildfire burn of her contrariness. She's not clinging to his hand the way she'd clung to his shirt as they'd fallen; no, the way she's got him now is like a fetter.]

You're not sorry, and you're not glad for me. You don't care about me, except in the manner that suits you. You don't care that I fell; you care whether I did it around you. You don't care if I'm safe and hale. You care about what you did to keep me so or not.

[She shakes her head, eyes narrowed, and doesn't let go of his hand.]

So this is for you. Because I want to. Because I choose to.

[More and more she shoves at him, and isn't it just like Summer Icarian, to find a way to turn care and empathy into a threat.]

Thank you for catching me. I like the way it feels to fall, too.

You're right. I'm a piece of shit.

[ Each word is like a blow, and he welcomes every one. He's always been selfish; isn't that what ultimately killed his clan? That he was a selfish coward who ran instead of becoming what they needed him to be.

He says nothing to defend himself. In a way, it feels strangely good to be recognized for what he has always known himself to be, for once seen in a way that does not feel threatening because it does not challenge him in the slightest, does not see anything redeeming within him that would lead her to expect better.

So he bows his head and takes it as what he deserves. ]

I told you I'd disappoint you. I disappoint everyone.

[ But there is something in that flow of emotion that almost washes him away, which he also recognizes with a sweet pain: her desire to be seen and cared about for herself, not out of obligation or convenience, but because she is Summer and that alone makes her worthy of love.

And that is something she deserves, something he heard in echo during their first meeting, when he responded to her fear with his own clumsy attempt at reassurance. The reason that he held her the way he did when she started to fall, that he made his sad attempt at teasing her like he might have teased one of his sisters if they'd lived, and it's not enough because nothing he ever does can be enough, but it's all he has to offer.

In disjointed contrast to that bitter and well-earned torrent of words, he reaches with his other hand, fingers sliding into her hair, and draws her closer so he can rest his forehead against hers. ]

I still see you, Summer.

[ As raw as he is, drowning, it isn't a conscious offering that he makes; he's not trying to disagree with her, or prove her wrong, but merely give the pittance he has left. But beneath all of the self-loathing and grief and pain remains the part of himself that he hasn't managed to kill, even after a decade of trying. He cares, with a fire and fury like a newborn star, and he believes, and that is the engine that drives him, that he's defensively tried to armor with guilt and gruffness. He wouldn't be so destroyed by his perceived failures to others if he didn't care.

He cares about Summer, because she wouldn't let him brush her off, and she's stubborn and funny, and she gave him a dumb name, and she was strong enough to show a complete stranger that she was scared, and stupid enough to trust him when he said he'd help her. Because for just one moment, he almost felt like he could, and even now he wishes he was good enough to be someone she didn't despise, and he resents her for that as well, that she's made him want to try again when it's turned out so miserably. ]

Seven hells, is that what I said — ?!

[But then he reaches for her, and everything changes.

She ought to bite him, or — or set him on fire, she could do that now, with their hands still clasped and her aether (no, manna, it's called manna) feeling stronger all the time. She ought to stay mad at him, and in a way she is still mad at him, but it's like for a moment a once-blurry picture suddenly snaps into focus, and she has to look and look as fast as she can before it loses all its detail again.

He's reminded her of people she knows and misses before now. Ardbert is the one she always comes back to, Ardbert who carried his agony and his guilt for a hundred years, left behind to live when all of his friends had died, kept back for a purpose that no one could tell him and all but going insane from the waiting. There's something of Emet-Selch in him, too, in flashes — something in the despair and disappointment and jaded outlook on everything around him, the cruelty he seems capable of leaping to on a moment's notice.

But it isn't...cruelty, is it...?

It isn't until she picks up the flickers of sister that she realizes who it is she's trying to pinpoint. That she's seen this brand of guilt before. Seen it in a man so driven by his fear of failure and inadequacy and guilt that he'd lost his own body to an Ascian from trying so hard to save the people he wanted to save.

Ryne had thought Thancred hated her, too, and — oh.

Oh.

Oh, she knows what this is, and knowing it might just make all the difference.]

You're going to walk me home now.

[And she hopes, herself, that she's finally landing the right guess, the lucky roll of the dice, because if she's got his number then she knows exactly what to do with him now.]

And when I'm stronger you're going to teach me how to fly.

[ His brows draw together and for once it's not anger or frustration in his expression, but confusion. After all she'd said, this? He doesn't know what to make of that flash of recognition he feels in the synch, either.

Soft, confused: ] Why?

[ You despise me, and I deserve it. But he can't even say that, because with all laid bare by the synch, he knows she doesn't. And that puzzles him entirely as well. ]

Because you are.

[Because if she's right, and he's like Thancred, then the path to what he wants is easy and uncomplicated, for all he might go out of his way to obfuscate it for himself. And that's what he needs, isn't it — someone who makes it easy. Someone like Minfilia. Someone he can measure successes against. Someone who, intentionally or otherwise, can produce ways for him to succeed at all.

And that's easy enough: it just means saying how things are, and standing by it, and not giving him the opportunity to insist otherwise. It's the reason he didn't walk away when she simply ignored his every signal that he wanted to: because she treated the situation as though he wasn't, and so he didn't.

So. Good.]

Don't call me a dummy anymore. I know how to dive, just not like this.

[ In a way, he's far more comfortable having his life directed by a woman, for all that his matriarch was killed a decade ago. He's tired, and he doesn't have a reason to fight what she wants, when it's not something that's hurting her.

And the world she sees is better than the one he lives in... and it doesn't matter if he deserves to be there or not. He's not the one who gets to decide that.

He seems to give himself a little shake, like shrugging a coat back on as he tries to remember how he even talks. ]

Yeah, well. You're not a dragoon. So you really don't.

[ She'll change her mind eventually. It may be inevitable. But pathetic as it is, he'll take what he can get until she does. ]

I bet you don't even know what I am.

[Besides "not a dragoon", which he's right about, but still. She bends her knees a fraction, testing, and then gradually lets go of his hand, allowing their impromptu connection to fall by the wayside.

She feels better, at least. Not nearly strong enough to attempt another use of magic, but better. Not empty. She could make it home without him if she really wanted.

Naturally, she's not going to tell him that.]

Wait here a moment. I need to get Ultros.

You're a fuckin' thaumaturge or something close enough to the like. [ He snorts. ] I'm not a complete idiot.

[ Because he's seen that staff, and it is nothing like what a conjurer or white mage would carry. Which is one of the reasons he didn't immediately flee the area without saying a word when he first laid eyes on her.

He feels strangely bereft when she lets go, and half reaches for her hand again, but... no. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. He's too starved for any kind of touch; it's fucking pathetic and he shouldn't advertise it. ]

...Ultros?

Oh, you know what a Thaumaturge is.

[And that's the thing he should be saying, probably, when black magic is still considered a dark art by so many. The Thaumaturges' Guild, at least, comes with a certain level of respectability. Tradition. None of the associations of Shatotto and the like.

She sees the way he thinks of taking her hand again, but doesn't comment on it, going first to retrieve her staff and replace it on her back before heading off to find Ultros...hopefully where she'd left him.

Or, well. Having gotten into some abandoned boxes discarded on the rooftop, the little criminal.]

What about a mammet? Have you ever seen one?

...why wouldn't I?

[ He sounds more confused than annoyed, rubbing his forehead. But... yeah, it's not like she knows anything about him. Because he doesn't talk about himself at all, for a lot of reasons.

But this? Safe to mention. Probably useful so she can stop being surprised that he knows how to blow his own nose or something. ]

I've served in the Maelstrom for ten years. Been in the Crimson Fleet for the last five of 'em.

[ ...oh. Mammets. He grimaces. ]

Yeah, I seen those before.

Well, that's why. You don't have the look of someone who spends a great deal of time in Ul'dah.

[Clicking her tongue, she bends and retrieves the misbehaving mechanical menace, holding it against her chest the way one might hold a stuffed animal, clasped in loosely crisscrossed arms.

...Ultros, the little lech, seems content with that state of affairs, and wriggles approvingly.]

This is Ultros. He's a horrible little thing.

[She says, with adoration.]

There're thaumaturges in the Maelstrom. All sorts in the Maelstrom.

[ Himself as exhibit number one, really. A Keeper of the Moon who is a dragoon and nearly as far as he can get from both Gridania and Ishgard. He crosses his arms, ears going mulish. ]

And I been to Ul'dah. Plenty of times. It's too bloody hot. And bright.

[ As had been Ala Mhigo, for that matter, but... he doesn't want to think about that.

He regards the mammet with the same level of disturbed suspicion that he might a large, hairy insect that Summer was holding against her boobs. ]

Yeah, looks pretty horrible.

Edited 2022-06-09 04:02 (UTC)

Pirates in the Maelstrom.

[That's really just proving his point, but regardless. She hangs on to Ultros a little longer, letting him be properly examined and inspected, and then gently deposits him onto the ground again as she starts leading the way to the stairs and down off the roof.]

You've never had a mammet? A lot of people do. Or mayhap that's just something they do in Ul'dah...rich people have all sorts of funny ideas that way.

[ He shrugs, as if to say, and what of it? His respect for things like governments is... not high. If he was going to end up serving anywhere, the pirate city state certainly made the most sense. Still, his lip curls in a slight smirk. ]

'til the sea swallows all.

[ He shakes his head. Admitting this is probably a major mistake on his part, but he doesn't generally like lying if he doesn't have a reason to lie, because the more lies one tells, the harder it is to remember them all, and he's not that smart. ]

Don't really like 'em. [ He hesitates, trying to figure out how to describe why, and finally settles on: ] They move around but ain't got souls. 's weird. And rich folk are real weird too, so that makes sense, aye?

Why d'ya have one? [ Squint. ] You don't act rich.

Edited 2022-06-09 04:12 (UTC)

Not souls, no, but they have something. The goldsmith's guild has one that's assisted the guildmasters for ages.

[Up close, it quickly becomes apparent that Ultros makes faint squishing noises when he walks. It is either adorable or profoundly annoying, depending on one's point of view.

Summer's voice, meanwhile, takes on the slightest hint of a rebellious edge.]

This one, someone made and then decided it was a mistake. They were going to dismantle him, so I took him instead, and now he's mine.

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