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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He has nothing to say to her as she leaves.
Depending on when she returns (if she chooses to), the lodge will be quiet when she returns. Little more than the crackling sound of the fire blazing in its nearby hearth.]
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The flowers are arranged in a circle with the candles placed in the middle and then they are lit. She sits on her knees, closes her eyes, and presses her hands together in prayer.]
I'm sorry. I'm not the best person for this at all.
[Could you even pray for people who aren't part of reality anymore? It's been a while since she's done something akin to this. Ironically, Lucinda only occasionally takes up medium-centric work but on a much smaller scale. The Collective saw her more fitting as an enforcer these days.
And she was selfish too. The weight of people's desperation, the high of being reunited and then apart, pulls at the seams of her person and it threatens to bring her back to that place where she was at her weakest.
Maybe she wasn't as outraged by Weir's actions because of that similar self-centeredness within. Her hands squeeze even more tightly.]
If you're suffering I can only pray you aren't alone. If you're lost, I pray that this light can send you on your way.
And since you're not here at all, I'll hold onto that weight.
[The difference between her and Weir is though she struggles with regrets and what-ifs, she would not change her world if presented with the opportunity. It would mean that her new parents, River and his family, other espers, and most importantly of all, their Mother, would cease to be. Lucinda's burdens let her know that she is strong enough to move forward whether here, there, or when she finally passes on.
She pinches the flames of each candle, stands up, and heads back in. Weir, wherever he is, can hear some distant singing as she comes up on the path and to the door.]
Moon river
Wider than a mile...
[It goes on like that after she opens and closes the door behind her, takes off her cloak, and takes a chair to sit in front of the fire. Oddly enough, she's not going to sleep yet.]
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So, instead: he is a dark silhouette cast against the fire blazing in the hearth, haloed in amber tones. Heโs seated himself in a plain wooden chair beside it to keep warm in the chill of the night, taking a whetstone to his knife. He murmurs under his breath to a voice only he can hear.
But her melody floats in long before she opens the door. He doesnโt bother to cast a glance at her, not that she might be able to tell if he did in this lighting.]
So did it make you feel any better?
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[She acknowledges his question but doesn't commit to answering. Lucy pulls one leg up to rest her face on her knee as she gazes into the embers.]
... I should sing better songs for vigils.
[And yet the first thing she thought of was Breakfast at Tiffany's and Audrey Hepburn. Some sendoff, she scoffs at herself but it could be worse.]
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So what was that, then? Something unsuited?
[He does not know it; the tune is strange, but she is from another world. The music must all be strange to his ears.]
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Lucinda tries to recall the details about Breakfast at Tiffany's and the context of the verses. And then decides to keep it simple.]
A song about love. Like so many songs are.
[Because some people want to fill the world with silly love songs. Thank you Moulin Rouge (2001).]
Specifically traversing its path, to see what's beyond. It may or may not end well.
[Maybe she thought of the song because she imagined spirits traveling down a moon river. Who knows?
There's another moment of dark but comfortable silence. She starts murmuring another song, something, something, California. You know, just something that wasn't a love song.]
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He listens to the next one, though her murmuring lyrics do give him pause this time, stilling the whetstone against the sharpened edge of the knife and knitting his brow.]
You're getting him riled up over your California again.
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Has he been bothering you every time I mention it?
[Lucy thinks she should tread carefully if an otherworldly creature shows interest in her world. But on the other hand, it is kind of funny that he's bothering Weir about California.]
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He scoffs, and this time, his look does shine clearly in the firelight.]
The Polymath covets knowledge, as I said. Of course he would want to know all about a world he doesn't truly understand.
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It also just occurs to Lucinda (and she chastises herself for not realizing this sooner), that her presence as a hapless otherworldly visitor would make Weir's life more difficult because of the creature's appetite for knowledge. He must have been bothering the ex-Dredger a lot during their conversations especially where her world is concerned.
Not that it makes him any better. Additional context doesn't change sinners to saints.
Well, she can't promise that she won't whet the Polymath's curiosity. The medium was about to say she could sing something else but tiredness blankets her mind. Instead, she asks:]
The upcoming festival. Do they have music?
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Aye.
[A beat, almost warily-]
Why? Want to sing for the whole of the town?
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... No. Not unless there's a request. I'd be more than ready if asked.
[After she sleeps and rests maybe she can have some fun the following day before considering her options other than this place with Weir.]
I just want to know what their music sounds like. I'm thinking of going to the festival.
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He actually isn't certain. He goes back to sharpening his knife.]
It'll be the first time I'll see it. [The festival. They didn't have such a thing in the old Turner's Vale, dreary place that it was.] I'll be dragging back game from the forest the day afore the festival. These people want their feast, and the meat for it.
[So even Weir, too, has agreed to participate. If barely.]
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Lucy keeps that to herself. Now is the time for sleep. So she moves to stand up and when she speaks, her voice sounds like it's coming from the dark.]
I'll see you tomorrow then. Later, since you'll be busy.
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But good luck broaching that subject with him anytime soon.]
Ah, running off already? Not quite yet. [He stops his sharpening and waggles his dagger's hilt at her, and the gesture is casual, meant to indicate more than to actually threaten.] So you've decided to remain here despite what you've learned? Is that what I'm to take from this?
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... I'll stay here for a little while but. Not much longer.
[After everything that's happened between them and what she knows now of Weir, anger and resentment ought to be inevitable. That's what a normal person should feel and act upon accordingly.
But she doesn't harbor hatred in her heart. She never even hated her own parents who now live, oblivious to her existence and their sin against her. Lucinda doesn't even hold anything against any enemies she's made over the years while working with the Collective. Being hated for enforcing the rules and exerting strength was unavoidable.
If she let herself overflow, she would drown. It had nearly happened in the forest. It was better to let her emotions be lackluster.]
We'll see what happens at the end of the week. I can gather information, prepare, and follow the merchants.
[And she'll shut the door on her memories with Weir, just like she has with the ones in Vietnam.]
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You're going to follow the merchants? Out past the Vale?
[Back and forth they go, to the city and beyond and back. A routine unerring every few months or so.]
And what? Remain in the city?
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[Lucinda leans against the wall, thinking.]
I need to know what they know of the city and make arrangements based on their information. From there on out, I'll have to look after myself.
[No Collective or any connections; just her and three ghosts under the skin.]
I'll see what I can carve out. If nothing else I can always find my way back as well.
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Weir doesn't reply immediately, but then finally slides his knife back into the holster he was keeping in his lap.]
If you're hoping for magic to help you, then you'll be disappointed. I told you, no one is capable of powerful magecraft any longer, much less the kind that will send you back to your world.
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But she shrugs; it's a soft sound in the dark.]
I think it's worth taking a look. If anything, my current approach is less, "Get home as fast as possible," and rather... "Let's just see what this place is like." And if my stay is extended, so be it.
[Though she didn't show or express it to Weir, during the first few days in Turner's Vale, Lucinda had felt adrift with no higher power or group to belong to. And it had made her wonder...
What would she do if she wasn't part of the Esper Collective? Was she simply a nobody without anyone to recognize her?
But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.
She starts to move to her bedroom. ]
"There's such a lot of world to see."
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Very well. Then you might begin readying your things to leave sooner rather than later. The merchants and their ilk will make their way out of the Vale mere days after the Festival has come to an end.
[Just so she's aware before she drifts off to her bedroom.]
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[Lucinda doesn't respond to Flora and Feather.]
When I make it to the city, I'll make sure to send something interesting back to you.
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[Ah, unkind. Cold as ever. If he senses his melancholy, he is never the type to try to ease it -- at least, not on a day like this one.]
Sleep now. It's been a long day for you. There's nothing in the morrow for you to tend do, so I'll not be waking you up.
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[Soft footsteps move to her sleeping area.
If only Flora could work her magic on this man who has seen the vulnerable and pathetic parts of Lucinda. It was the petty part of her that wanted to hold the knowledge of his wrongdoings over him while he could be left ignorant of her. Weir wanted to be left alone to his easy life, didn't he? Lucinda would be doing him a favor, just like the mercy she showed her mother and father.]
[They both harbor entangled hearts. Only in the next few days would they know if it becomes strangled even further.]
Good night.