finalflight | PSL; [ we could fight a war for peace ]

PSL; [ we could fight a war for peace ]

[He remembers when he had been on the verge of death, staring up at the gnarled canopy of the Iifa tree as it swayed, crumbling on all sides. Weighed with regret, his body battered with pain and wrung dry with exertion, the sense of clarity he possessed was strange and freeing. He will never forget it, even before his preemptive acceptance of his passing was proven false via his arrival to another world.

A part of him wonders if Primrose experiences that same feeling, if revelations has been imparted to her as she bleeds out and into the rug. There is the corpse of an unknown man elsewhere in the room—and maybe he’s long passed death’s threshold—but Kuja does little more than give him a passing glance as he moves to Primrose’s side instead. Though there is little alarm in his expression, very little rush to his step, his brows crimp in a way that is rare beyond more extreme bouts of emotion.]

What trouble have you gotten yourself into today? Dear flower, you’ve made a mess.

[He crouches down, silver hair framing his face as a fingertip presses gently against her skin that’s wetted itself with blood. Still warm — and she’s still breathing. Is she conscious? Kuja manages a proper frown.]

Can you hear me? At least breathe into my ear who’s done this to you — the audience can only be left hanging for so long.

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[ Primrose doesn't move, for all that her pulse flutters weakly, her chest rising and falling even more imperceptibly. She can hear him dimly, just beneath the still-mocking laughter of the very first man she had ever loved.

She can't let it end like this. She can't allow him to escape, to sneer at her misery and her death, to mockingly remark that she ought to be pitied. She sees him then, her father firmly facing his death, but she knows already-- she can't join him. Not yet. Not while that arrogant man still smugly draws breath.

She can hardly speak now, can't even lift herself off the floor, for all of her pride and her independence. Her fingers curl, just barely, as though this is all the struggle she has left.

Audience, plays... she's sick of it. She's no one's puppet. ]

... Simeon...

[ There's a lot in that quietly gasped word. Pain. Betrayal. Fury. Bitterness.

But it's all she can say. ]

Simeon… [He echoes, letting the name roll over his tongue, and distaste settle in his stomach. Though Kuja can make no claim to Primrose at all, a quiet part of him does — selfishly. She is his dance partner, his traveling companion, his real only connection to this strange world that isn’t completely tenuous and fleeting. The threat of violence and injury had always been prevalent during their journey, but that someone would turn that threat into a reality? That he might watch her bleed with each shallow breath as he does now?

How agitating.

Of course, to tell her that much might make her hasten death just to spite him, and Kuja only smiles faintly, banishing the darkened look.]

What a cad. Truly.

[His hand, still smeared with her blood, hovers across her wound.]

Well, it’s fine. I’m no white mage, but I can staunch the bleeding just enough to keep you very much alive, so that another might fret over your state, instead.

[A pause, however. He would hate to make assumptions, though a small part of him might do it anyway, regardless of her answer.]

That’s what you want, isn’t it?

[ Sweet of him, to ask her what she wants, even if a refusal would just mean she dies here and now with no vengeance to lay at the foot of her father's undeserved grave. Primrose can't even tell if the thought is tinged with dry humor or if she finds the question actually endearing. She finds she doesn't care to dwell on it, instead clinging nigh-ferociously to that anger, the need to fight back and keep dancing until the day she can finally stop.

One pain-darkened eye focuses on Kuja, to the best of her ability, and she breathes out her permission in a very... Primrose-like manner. ]

I refuse to draw... my last breath here... well until after I have ensured I have taken his.

[Now, then, that is certainly what he likes to hear. Absolutely delightful, he thinks, that she resolves to give this Simeon exactly what he deserves. A warmth around Kuja's fingertips emanates, as though holding a small light close to her body, and his magic crawls across her wound, halting the excess bleeding as he promised.

But, as he said, he is no medic. His magics possessed a more destructive flair than an inclination towards mending, and there is only so much he can do right now. When his sorcery fades, he slips his hands beneath her body, standing to his feet to lift her up in his arms.]

Then I am here to make certain you see it through to the very end. Off we go.

[Until that very last curtain call. For now, time to find someone who can help, which is what he turns on his heel to do.]

[ She maintains her grip on consciousness long enough to murmur a very faint affirmative, but by the time Kuja begins walking, Primrose is entirely unresponsive, and remains that way once Ophilia and Alfyn hurriedly take her into their custody. Alfyn in particular seems troubled by the location of the stab wound, remarking that it really would have been a 50-50 chance on whether it was fatal or not, had Kuja not intervened to shove Primrose a little closer to the threshold of Living.

Even so, it's still a good three days before Primrose finally opens her eyes, in a bed that isn't one of the inn's. Revello had insisted that if nothing else, she stay in his home until she had recovered enough, though it's not as though Primrose herself knows that, and she finds herself blearily regarding the ceiling before she eases herself up and presses a hand to her bandaged torso with a wince. ]

[Kuja busies himself for three days before he receives word that Primrose has returned to the realm of the living. He grins, saying that he is glad to hear it and that he should make a point to see how she's doing -- quite soon, quite soon.

Being as frustrating as he is, rarely even caged to his own whims (or so he tells himself), he busies himself for one day more before he finally visits her. It's early morning, at least, when he arrives, moving to her bedside with a tilt of an assessing look.]

That still looks like it hurts.

[He glides over to her bedside and sits himself down on it, needing no invitation. Painted nails run through his hair.]

But what's anger, if not continually bolstered by pain? That's the real whetstone for a blade, you know.

[hi how are you feeling]

[ hi friend

Primrose just gazes at him for a moment, as though still processing everything that happened. It feels very strange not to know everything that has transpired since then, but Kuja's weight on the edge of the bed feels more real than her feverish dreams have been, as does the throb of the wound left by a former lover.

That will likely scar. ]

Indeed it is. I would not hesitate to say that my edge has become sharper from this... encounter. He may regret not finishing me off properly.

... I do hope you weren't too bored, though I imagine you were able to entertain yourself regardless.

[ she's fine, thanks. He wasn't worried, that's how this goes. ]

[Worried? Kuja doesn’t worry. Perhaps his mind flitted to her every once in a while in those three days, but surely that does not count as actual concern — he was far too distracted with everything else.

Fending off boredom and such. Yes, that’s it. He waves a hand dismissively.]

Oh, there is but middling entertainment to be found here. If I had my druthers, there would be a grand festival in the square every day. But maybe it just isn’t the season for it.

Now that you’re back— [He leans an elbow into the mattress, half of him stretched out across like a cat.] —I’m sure boredom won’t be as much of an issue anymore. Oh, especially now that you have a story to tell.

[About this Simeon, of course!]

[ Her lips quirk faintly before pressing into each other even further and forming an impressively flat line. No one really likes to reminisce on a betrayal, but Kuja is the type of individual who thrives on the drama. She half-wonders if he and Simeon would get along, considering their theatrical love. ]

There is not much to tell. He considered me a puppet, a pretty doll whose life and emotions he could orchestrate to suit his amusement. A tragic play of his own making, one crafted for years. Perhaps you would like him.

[ But the bitterness remains in her gaze, for how dismissively she speaks. ]

[Oh, they all have their stories to share, their pasts rooted in drama, betrayal, and pain. Kuja does, too. And his curiosity is ever wheedling, especially where Primrose is concerned. So often, she paints herself as detached and unwilling to share the finer details, and so he has to dig—impetuously, stubbornly—to unearth what he’s sure must be a sordid tale.

It’s true, he thrives off of drama. Certain unflattering habits are hard to erase for him.Yet despite his metaphoric love for the stage, he is plainly invested in this tale for more reasons than merely being an observer in the audience.]

“Not much to tell”? I don’t believe that for a single second. No one chooses their leading role on a whim. They must know without a doubt that they will give the performance of a lifetime.

[Hm, would he get along with this Simeon? A novel thought to consider, if he hadn’t already written the man off as an annoyance. But he seems integral to her story, nonetheless.]

Surely you knew him before today.

Edited 2021-11-08 16:15 (UTC)

[ The sigh she heaves is very quiet. If he was enthralled by the promise of a sordid tale, she absolutely does not want to confess to being the heir of a fallen noble house. It had already taken considerable effort to get Revello to cease calling her "Lady Primrose" within earshot of anyone else. ]

He posed as a gardener, years ago. I was rather taken by his poetic nature and gentle demeanor. You might call him my first love.

[ She'll give Kuja what he wants for once, if just so she doesn't have to revisit this ever again. ]

[That’s more than enough for Kuja to find scintillating. His eyebrows actually raise in a moment of surprise, and the noise that escapes him is not unlike a teenager being told of their best friend’s crush at a sleepover.]

Oooh. [Oh, that must have been such a shock. Fuel for her bitterness, now.] Young childhood love? So often pure, if not misguided. Or so I’m told.

[He wouldn’t know, never having a childhood.]

Did you have a fight? Was your relationship torn asunder? Why else would he slide a blade in-between your ribs after meeting you again, years later?

[She said this was orchestrated for years, but was there a reason beyond watching pain play out in others?]

He is the leader of the group that murdered my father. I imagine he must have found it the height of amusement, to string along a young girl and then set her down a bloody path, just to be present for the moment she came to realize that the one who took her father from her was someone who had been dear to her. She learned that truth right as he left her to bleed out. How very tragic.

[ Her voice is hollow, though there's a bright fury in her gaze as she grips at the blanket covering her legs. ]

He wanted my despair. I can tell that much.

[Ah, clever. Credit where it’s due — that is the kind of farce that might break a weaker person, and allow them to succumb to such despair.]

So he had been connected to your father’s death all along. [He’s resting his head in a hand, and a finger taps idly at his cheekbone.] He really does have a taste for the dramatic.

[He’s quiet a moment, his eyes searching hers.]

Still, if that was his aim, I think he’s failed. You do not have the look of a heartbroken woman. Simeon may not be as guiling as he believes.

[Yes, he’ll take that credit right back.]

[ Primrose meets his gaze steadily, her lips pressing into an expression that's far from gentle. ]

I have learned that trust is not a thing so easily earned by honeyed words and a soft touch-- I am far from the child who would have once fallen prey to those things.

[ It had hurt, yes. But-- ]

That man is no longer fit to dance with. For his arrogance, my dagger will have its fill of his blood.

[Kuja is pleased by that response. He doesn’t try to hide it.]

Time changes us all. For better or worse, naivety drains from us like blood from a wound. I’m glad that he has earned your wrath now, rather than your affection.

[That said, he must know-]

What is he like? When you were younger, what about him made you fall for the man?

[Is this a subject she wants to entertain? He doesn’t seem to care.]

That will remain known only to me. You can make your guesses when you encounter him for yourself.

[ She's got to keep some secrets of her own, after all. Kuja can only get so much gossip out of her. ]

[He frowns, dissatisfied with that answer. Primrose can’t cut off the spigot of gossip just like that. (Yes, she can.)]

Come on. Tell me. What is there to be ashamed of?

Edited 2021-11-08 18:18 (UTC)

What use would it be of to you?

What happened back then in no way reflects my preferences now, were I to have any.

[ No more gossip for Kuja! ]

[He huffs indignantly, tossing a tress of hair that had started to spill over his shoulder.]

What makes you think it would be information I would use? Honestly, you flatter yourself.

[More! Gossip!]

Do not act as though you’d be any more forthcoming if I asked about your current preferences. You are a closed book, Primrose, and I am merely trying to pry open your pages.

An open book is quickly read, finished and discarded. Perhaps I don't wish for you to tire of me just yet.

[ Deep words for someone with bedhead, she's well aware. ]

Oh? Are you afraid I would learn what I could, then discard you utterly and completely?

[His frown twists back into a smile, the same way he’s twisting her words.]

I’m touched, but I’m not going anywhere. No matter how many deep and dark secrets you spill. Not yet, at least.

[Where would he go? He has nowhere, in this world or his own.]

[ With a half-smile now ]

You've caught me, I'm afraid. However, words may be empty, so some secrets I must keep locked away until I deem them ready to be shared.

[ Which might be "never". ]

My words are never hollow, dear flower. There is meaning behind each and every syllable.

[Citation needed. He, at least, believes so.

Kuja takes a moment to stretch, obviously making himself comfortable.]

You say I’m to make up my own mind on the matter — meeting Simeon? Do you believe that will come to pass? Or will you fly off on your own, as soon as you catch word of where to find him?

[ Is he planning on napping on this bed, she can move--

But she merely huffs quietly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. She's already told him what she avoids. ]

I intend to leave as soon as I know where he's hidden himself. Whether you accompany me or not is your own path to choose.

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