morally dubious dirt man ๐ weir dredger (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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finalflight2023-06-26 11:54 am
fossick) wrote in finalflight2023-06-26 11:54 amEntry tags:
fossick) wrote in finalflight2023-06-26 11:54 am
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From the floor, Huyen drags her body and sits up. At the entrance of the door is a man with a woman behind him. The former's expression is hard and on alert. The woman wears expensive-looking silk and heavy makeup that does her no favors as worry creases her forehead. They approach her with caution as if she's an animal. The woman speaks up first, in that language that Weir heard Lucinda used not so long ago but in this illusion he can understand what's being said.]
[The cut grows deeper, the wound turns her stomach, and Lucinda doesn't know whether to cry or laugh, or fall to the ground. Of all things she thought she killed any feeling towards the people who had birthed her so long ago and no, oh no. Even when she assured Weir that she had come to terms with what had happened to her, seeing it again makes the realization even worse.
It was the realization that somewhere deep down, beneath the righteous fury and the severing of ties, the remnant of a child's love remained.
She takes a step back, her shoulder brushing with Weir's and that snaps her out of the endless pit of despair. Lucinda attempts to answer him again and all she can come out with are rueful words.]
Dresses. Mother thought the dresses would make all of this bearable.
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Sheโs but a tool. A money-making object for her parents to utilize for their own happiness, but not hers. Never hers.]
Your parents are like any other.
[He says, looking at her younger self, frowning deeply. His words do not console, but theyโre hardly meant to.]
Those who take advantage of what theyโve been given. Even if that means garnering it from their own flesh and blood. Blood ties themselves do not meanโฆ affection comes in its wake.
[He looks over his shoulder at her. Now, he can see it clearly: this still hurts Lucinda.]
At least they saw a use for you.
[His own? They left him. Next to that river, knowing full well that in Turnerโs Vale, a child with nothing to its name would be delegated a fate to living its life gathering in the Pit. That it would die down there, someday. And someday, indeed, he nearly did.]
At least they pretended to care.
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[Her voice is barely a whisper. They watch as the father undoes the cuffs around Huyen's ankles and the mother and the maid, who followed her inside, take her by the shoulders and coax her up to sit on the bed. Father leaves and the maid starts brushing Huyen's long hair while Mother goes to the closet to choose a robe.]
They loved me when I wasn't useful. When I didn't see shadows.
[It was difficult to remember a time like that, but she does remember. And that's what makes this whole thing worse.]
But then it became poisoned. Sometimes I think it was my fault; showing them what I could do when my abilities awakened. [Lucinda leans against the wall now. There's no ill will left in her eyes. Just darkness and melancholy.]
They had no knowledge of how to help me. I couldn't even help myself. They saw an opportunity to exploit desperate broken people who wanted to hear their loved ones' voices and I was a child who wanted their love. But if I was inconvenient...
[She buries her face in the riding cloak to force down a dry sob that threatened to escape. The medium looks at Weir while biting her lip.]
You think so too. That I'm an inconvenience.
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[But what does Weir know about love, familial or otherwise? Absolutely nothing. The intricacies of how you can hurt someone you still care for elude him. He does not care to understand; he never did.
So perhaps this comes across as callous, uncaring. But he only thinks that he is being reasonable, clear-headed. And when she looks like she might crumble under the weight of terrible recollection and old, buried emotions, Weir steps forward. Reaches out to grab her by the wrist, to earn her attention so that she focuses solely on him.]
So what if you are? Your presence in this world has been nothing but trouble to me, aye. Look at where you've landed us; in a terrible memory of your own, in which I have neither care nor investment!
[Again, not particularly comforting words, but he doesn't aim to be.]
But if you choose to fall to these remembrances here and now, and keep us trapped in this fucking forest, then you are less than an inconvenience. You are little more than a bad omen. So snap out of it! If you want to prove your worth, then I'll happily give you the opportunity. But we need out of here first.
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[Her friends could protect her body but not her heart. Lucinda shuts her eyes as Weir grabs her wrist. His words are a different hurt. A bad omen, trouble, inconvenientโ]
So snap out of it!
[The people in the memory start to leave for the door. And suddenly without warning, Lucinda heads for the door and pulls Weir with her. When they're both outside of the basement prison, she slams the door behind them to trap the memories within. There are voices, shouting, confused, and enraged. But she remembers they're in the forest. The forest wants to hurt her.
But oh, the forest can't really account for the fact that she's always been hurting.
There's pounding against the door, but she puts her back against it staring at the ground. Eventually the pounding stops. It's quiet in the house.
Some memories can stay where they are, locked away, and only to be opened when necessary.]
... Let's go then.
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Let's go then.
The forest around them trembles. Bamboo, or trees proper? For a moment, just a fleeting thing, itโs hard to say. It could be both. Maybe something about the forest's influence wavers, now, seeing how Weir keeps hold of her as they move.]
Just push forward. That is all we can do for now. Leave this behind us โ behind you.
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... Weir?
[Lucinda's face is turned away from him.]
Are you any good at pretending?
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Pretending? At what?
[Is this relevant-]
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โPretend you don't hear anything from me. I'll keep going. Just...
[Don't acknowledge her tears. She wants to leave those behind with the memories.]
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Ah.
He pauses just long enough to look over his shoulder at her, brow cinched. He sees the glisten of tears running down her face.
Gods. He's not equipped for this. To be fair, she isn't asking for him to be.]
If you keep it to yourself, what reason do I have to belabor the point of your tears?
[Again, the forest shifts, becoming nothing but reams and reams of bamboo again. Weir frowns, noticing the change.]
Just keep close. [He says, experimentally, and the forest shifts again... back into a flicker of trees, the forest that he knows.]
This forest... it sees you as a guest, either wanted or unwanted. Come closer and... [Gods, what?] Cry all you like, woman.
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[Her dear friends are a comfort when no one else in her life can be. They loved her in spite of, or even because of her dead heart that somehow made her produce tears.
And so those tears fall but silently, not with a whimper or a choking sob like the pitiful girl in the bamboo grove. At Weir's prompting, she moves closer, wiping away her tears with the cloak in her arms.]
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His own? Itโs frankly quite possible.
The opposite, then, is to act like this isnโt the case. To be welcoming, warm. Sโฆupportive. Does he even know the meaning of the word?
Technically, yes. In practice, he may be lacking. Case in point: when she gets closer, Weir draws her in with an arm in a performative show of faux comfort. His eyes remain on the trees. A murmur:]
You asked if I can pretend. I bloody well can, and so should you. Pretend youโre comfortable with me.
[And louder, for the forest-]
Itโs very well fine for you to be sad, Lucinda.
[The energy is practically this.]
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You're... You're terrible. [The esper does lean her forehead against him. Exhaustion? Sudden relief? Both?]
But I don't have to pretend with you.
[Lucinda has been comfortable with Weir, the way one is in the company of a feral cat. You already know that normal affection will not reach it, that attempts to do so will be met with a scratch and a hiss. But you both know you're starting to get used to each other's company.
It's funny. It's so funny she's survived the basement, multiple spirits, her training with the Collective, and so many missions that required her all where she faced possible death with a smile. And here she is in another world buckling under the pressure of seeing her weakness flaunted in front of her.
No, she won't die from this. She'll survive once again even if she needs to depend on the world's most suspicious-hearted man.]
... Thank you.
[Lucinda squeezes his hand.]
Even if you don't mean it, I do.
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After all, it's not like he's truly devoid of empathy. Lucinda's childhood circumstances were not ideal, and she had been forced to do something she never asked for -- much like he did, his entire life devoted to a task he had no choice in, mostly for the advantage of those he didn't know. His life had more use for what he could do, not the sort of person that he was.
But this is such a small, flagging part of him so easily overturned by what he believes is best for himself, his self-centeredness ever focused on the situation at hand and how to skew it better in his favor. Her gratitude, then, is barely acknowledged:]
I mean it enough to get us out of here.
[But maybe this showing is still enough. Maybe Lucinda's sincerity counts for something, and maybe Weir's willingness to play a part he's inherently uninvested in is enough of an effort for the forest to see it in a different light.
Maybe Lucinda isn't a trespasser. Maybe she really is a guest of a native of the Vale.
A breeze passes through. There's no fog this time, but the scent of the Sapphires is strong, almost pungent. And then, after a long few moments, every bit of memory--whatever was still clinging on before--falls away, and the forest is back to how it was when they first stepped within its boundaries.
It's cold again. Their breath coils white.]
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... It looks like I'm welcome now.
[Her voice is slowly becoming serene again.]
Rather belated but it's better than the alternative.
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["Welcome."
Immediately, Weir drops his arm. Though he has enough sense not to step away unless the forest decides that is yet one more sudden rejection of her presence.
He should feel relieved, and for a moment, he does. But in the next, he can only experience the onslaught of trepidation and utter exasperation, knowing that he really has stumbled across a complication in the form of a world-hopping medium deposited on his proverbial doorstep.
What is he going to do with her?]
...We should return to town, then. Unless you've still a mind to collect herbs and mushrooms after all that.
[he sure ain't]
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At Weir's question, she glances back at him. Smiles placidly.]
Let's go back. We'll try again and be better prepared.
[And she can just fall asleep early because god she kind of wants to sleep and not wake up for a long while.]
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[And he means it, even as he stalks ahead with long, striding gaits. He's still wary, and his hackles are raised from what just happened; it was hardly his memory and he feels as though he could do with a moment to himself to decompress.
A drink would probably not go amiss right about now.
To say that the atmosphere woven between them won't be awkward is a bald-faced lie, and Weir's silence doesn't help as they make their way back to the main path. Eventually, though-]
What I said about proving yourself. I was serious about that, you know.
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[Lucinda hushes her friends and they fall silent once again. She can think about what this all means tomorrow.]
You are not the joking type. I know you are serious Weir.
We'll just have to see.
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[One way or another.
They find the main path, but Weir has little more to say about that. It's back to the village and, eventually, back to his lodgings, to think about all that's transpired thus far โ and how he might proceed.]