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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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.]