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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.

[ Ezar is definitely not of the opinion that it's adorable. He keeps an eye on the mammet like he's half expecting it's going to attack him. At her tone, his ears flick and he gives her a considering look. ]

Don't think you want to hear my feelings on your toy. It's yours and it brings you happiness so it ain't my business.

But I'd rather you keep it away from me, aye?

I admitted he's horrible, didn't I? Just don't kick him, I don't know if I could repair him on my own if something happened to him.

[She shrugs a little, continuing to lead the way. Ultros, never one to take direction when he could be committing crimes instead, divides his time neatly between following Summer and wandering over close to Ezar, almost as though he's doing it deliberately.]

What toys do you favor, then? If not mammets.

I'll try not to. But if it touches me, I make no promises.

[ He's watching you, Ultros. ]

...toys? [ He looks genuinely baffled. ] Why would I...?

[ I'm not a child. But obviously, she's not either. So she apparently comes from a very different... social setting where that's a normal thing for adults to do. ]

You must've had them once. Or something you collect? Something pointless you favor even though it's pointless?

[SURELY YOU MUST HAVE FUN EZAR. SURELY.]

Nothing like that?

You mean stuff I do for fun?

[ Thal's balls, why not just ask the question in a normal way? ]

Played with toys when I was too young to hunt. [ He shrugs. ] Then I was... [ He hesitates; this is getting too close to things he doesn't talk about. ] ...I was one of our hunters.

I still hunt, when I've leave. Fish, too. Read, sometimes, but I'm not much good at it. [ All things, notably, that he can do by himself. ] I grow orchids. Grew orchids, I guess.

You do anything other than play with toys?

Edited 2022-06-09 07:41 (UTC)

I was supposed to be a huntress, but I was never much at it. No good with lances or bows. I like listening to stories, though, and telling them. Maybe I could've been a fair bard, but for the bit about the arrows.

[She's quiet for an interval, thinking it over.]

Do you ever think about how big the star really is? How much that's really out there, farther than the eye could ever see. All the lasting remnants of everything that ever came before. I like finding out about places like that.

[ He does not find it in the least surprising that Summer likes stories. She certainly talks more than enough to be a bard. Nor does it surprise him that she wasn't much for hunting. A person can train a certain amount of coordination into their body if they don't come by it naturally, but he'd wager she wasn't overly inclined to try.

These are both opinions he keeps to himself. ]

Sailing with the Crimson Fleet, I've seen the ocean. Water stretching so far that it's all you see in any direction, and from the top of the mast you can see the star curve away beneath you.

[ He looks forward, reminded of other, older things, the way she says lasting remnants. A dangerous topic to admit to any knowledge of; this is why it's best perhaps to avoid others from Eorzea. He's not that good of a liar. ]

A single malm of the forest is a world unto itself. What dwells there is older than anyone's imaginings, and it carries more secrets than anyone'd be able to learn in their life.

What is it you're lookin' for?

[If the measure of a good bard is the ability to keep an audience engaged, Summer thinks idly, then mayhap she really could've been a good one — at least as far as Ezar is concerned. She wonders if he's noticed that not only is he at a point of volunteering information on his own, he's asking questions without being prompted or baited into them.

Hopefully he hasn't noticed. She's certainly not going to tell him.]

You mean what secrets? It sounds funny, but...I'm not usually the one who knows what we're looking for. I just listen to the people who do. My friends, usually.

[Which. Feels odd to admit, somehow? It's not as though it's any new revelation. It's just a little new to put into words and say aloud.]

Or were you expecting me to say something like, "I'm looking for who I really am"?

[ There is an overly long pause as Ezar tries to make sense of that, and further tries to figure out if there's a way to repeat his question, in a more specific way, without it becoming obvious what information he's fishing for. Because Summer's not dumb, she'd sniff it out, he's certain of that, and if he admits to anything at all, she'll just hypnotize him or whatever it is she does and then he'll say even more he shouldn't.

What he really wants to know is if he should turn around and run now, because he might have been terribly wrong to think she as safe to be around as anyone from Eorzea potentially could be. There is no good way of asking that.

A little of his consternation shows by a shift in the angle of his ears, back just a few degrees more. Worried. He isn't sure how to divert away from that, either. This is just one more reason he doesn't talk to people, as a rule. ]

Aye, isn't that why most people go poking about where they shouldn't?

[ A suitably grouchy answer, he hopes. ]

They're either huntin' for treasure or huntin' to fill some other emptiness.

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