thusia | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Who: SOME DUDE
When: Day 119, HIGH NOON
Where: OUTSIDE IN THE FIELDS
What: SOME VARIANT OF THIS

[HELLO, FELLOW THUSIANS.

THIS AFTERNOON, THERE IS A FLAG BEING HOISTED IN SOME LARGE TREE.

YOU CAN PROBABLY SEE IT FROM THE WINDOWS.

IT'S BLACK AND WHITE AND MAY HAVE BEEN MADE FROM BED SHEETS.

POSSIBLY, SOME HOUSEWIFEY PERSON MIGHT BE MILDLY OFFENDED BY THIS BUT WHATEVER.

THERE IS ALSO A MADMAN LAUGHING FROM ONE OF THOSE CLOSED-OFF BALCONIES ON HQ.

... THE SWEAT RUNNING DOWN HIS FACE MIGHT EXPLAIN HOW THE FUCK HE GOT UP THERE (HINT: IT WAS SUPER NOT EASY AND THUS MORE EPIC)]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Characteristics we possessed before the restoration can hardly be blamed on each other.

[Smiles a bit at Prussia's attempts at serenity.]

Remember that this is not the first time you've sat before me like this.

That was an accident!

... sort of.

In the totally meant to do something kind of way.

I meant it.

[Draws his hand back from Prussia's nape to brush a thumb under his eye.]

"So long as the architecture is solid, and the foundation whole, a castle does not become a shack simply because it has fallen into disrepair. It is what it is. That does not change."

[this former kingdom-world-person has never and will never like being seen as vulnerable but those words sure make it hard to keep up a tough front]

... yeah, we'll see if it's still around, huh.

[and with that, trying to focus in on Zexion like he did back then. less out of curiosity and with more purpose]

[For a moment, it seems almost as though he would say something else—a short breath in, slightly parted lips—but the only motion he makes is to raise his free hand, resting it over the hand Prussia has on his chest.

It's not the same as last time. There is no wrongness here, no horribly itchy crawly feeling of this isn't right. An echo of the stubbornness remains, guarding what lies below&mash;but whatever guards exist, whatever walls, they part for Prussia's presence with no more resistance than the gentle swing of a well-oiled door.]

[His first step beyond is met with buffeting black wings, an eagle's cry of defiance, and the glow of sunlight (or is it moonlight bright enough to seem as though it's from the sun?) breaking through the mist.

The only marker that remains of those once-barren fields is a single pair of footprints, now almost faded, leading deeper. All else has been covered by a rich carpet of living cornflowers, stretching out as far as the senses reach, flowers and leaves swaying in a lingering, living breeze.]

[it's a completely different experience, that's certainly true. and all the reminders of nostalgia from his own past serve to make this make this just as difficult as the last time this has happened. there's a pang in his heart, of almost not wanting to progress, wanting to linger lest things go wrong.

nonetheless, moving toward those footprints with firm determination]

[Surprisingly or not, measured against the shape and size of those marks, his feet are an exact and perfect match.

Somewhere not here, not this, a hand moves from Prussia's cheek to curve around his neck, pulling him closer, deeper into the mist ahead.

There's something there, waiting. A prize, a victory. Something to be grasped and seized and held, something that can be, now.]

[there's no resistance to the pull, wherever that may be because the distraction of what's before him pretty much takes all of his attention and focus.

it takes a lot of effort to not simply speed ahead, to not seize desperately at what is ahead. and yet, even with reining himself in, it would be difficult to say that the painful need to have something--more specifically, something of his--did not color his actions as he continues forward, reaching out, seeking]

[And the touch that lingers here is so old, now. Old and faded, belonging to a him that had barely begun to cherish what was here before it was gone.

Deeper now, the mist is cool and thick against his senses. Streaks of darkness and flickers of sickly green energy linger at the edge of his vision, waiting and watching and there, still, to be called on at need. His path alone remains clear, the odd cornflower blooming still between those old, weathered footprints.

Further on, close now. He's almost there.]

[forward is the only way he will allow himself to go, to go back really isn't an option at this point. even if he thinks of the reasons why this isn't a good idea, why this will likely do more damage than good...

really, it's a lingering hope that keeps him pressing onward.]

[Darker now, this deep. Dark and still, quiet and private, but there is something beyond it, waiting ahead, something there and tangible and bright, warm as the first rays of sunlight.

Whatever barriers may have guarded here are no more than veils of mist and rustling paper, so easily parted and pushed aside.

Here. Here. The light of the morning sun through closed eyes, the warmth and comfort of a warm bed when there's no reason to move. Murmured words, the feel of fingers through his hair but none of those things are here, not really. Just a book, open in his hands, that looks like paper but feels smooth as mirrored glass, designs etched into its bindings.

There are chains here. Chains all around, but that's not an important thing, is it? Not like this, these open pages.

One side is completely blank. The other, drawn in colours so vibrant it could be real, is marked with the image of a stained-glass circle. A picture of Zexion rests on its surface, the faces of those few so deeply imprinted on his heart captured there too. Black eagles and crosses that shift between he Nobodies' and Prussia's own frame the image, in the background, the Castle stands white and tall, the Dark City clustered around it—until closer, here, where it spreads out into a sunlit field of blue cornflowers.]

[and here is when there is that moment of indecision, that moment of not wanting to mar the image already there, well and preserved if only because the time of this particular heart was cut short. takes the time to study these images, comparing it, contrasting it to what he remembers, what will become of these lovely preserved histories of times now long gone.

there is still a moment of hesitation even as he starts to reach for the blank page...

a strong sense of loss.

a lack of wanting to destroy what's before him now.

and yet a resolve to not have the history only he knows of be lost.

his hand reaches out sharply, to place it on that empty side, to turn the page and lose sight of a history that he once shared.]

[The page adheres to his fingers with the surety of a magnet meeting metal, a sense of connection—

just a moment, where he's aware of just how big he is in this space. Hands large enough to hold the entirety of that stained-glass heart between his palms, trails of history and memory that spill out behind him like a cape, like the smoke from a bonfire that creeps and seeps into everything he's passed.

Stroke after stroke, ink starts to mark that blank page, traced by some unseen pen.]

[. . .

stares at it for a long while.

and then.

just.

bursts into laughter.

not just inwardly but outwardly. kind of a snickering sound like he's trying not to laugh, THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR LAUGHTER--

yet completely just right]

[The page loses whatever attraction it had to Prussia's fingers, slipping free to once again lay flat.

The quill pen remains in his hand, its presence an indelible mark of guilt in this recent, completely uncalled for vandalism.]

[you say "uncalled for vandalism", I say "entirely passed due masterpiece"!

but holding onto the quill and debating what to do now...]

[Is there anything else to do?

Isn't this what you wanted?

Ink has already begun to spread, bleeding through to pages below, reforming into words and pictures and maps.]

[oh, good.

except complicated.

well, if that's done. time to start heading back out]

[The quill—

the key in your hand is heavy, the silver metal worn from use and spotted with tarnish, but still sound. The name etched into the bow of the key has been re-pressed so many times as to be near illegible, but the crest is still true—a black eagle with spread wings, the crest on its chest as worn as the key's name.]

[. . . wait.

wait.

this is familiar.

too familiar.

... all this symbolism hurts his head after a while, but making sure to pocket the key after taking a moment to study it, the hold on it tight so he doesn't drop it.]

[Its presence is a solid weight in his pocket, the metal as warm as his fingers.

The mist, on the other hand, is cool. Cool and quiet, with nothing but the sound of his footsteps disturbing the peace.

. . . it seems deeper now. Sometimes there's shapes in the fog—figures moving then gone, the edge of an unlit streetlamp, the curve of one of the castle's towers. Disjointed, transient, suggested and then gone.

The faint smell of smoke mingles with the scent of cornflowers.]

[that is not a smell that he needed right now.

now where's the exit and how fast can he get to it.

. . . dumb questions when this is all a mental thing but also knowing he's too literal minded to really accomplish much without going through the motions or something.

either way, moving away from the destruction, going back the way he came]

[This is the way you came, isn't it? It has to be, there are footsteps here still, pressed into concrete cobblestone rain soaked soil.

But the mist doesn't let up. If anything, it's thicker still, covering the once-open landscape with the weight of unshaped memory. Char floats on the breeze, flowers wilt and fade to white husks and bloom again.

There is a way out, isn't there? Past the footsteps of ghosts, past fallen buildings and port cities born new, past the memory of an endless winter wind that ended in a silence colder than anything else had been.]

[nope. nope. nope. not liking this at all. just wants to get out now, kthx.

what if just used key to get out? is that how this works? no idea! giving it a shot, though. picking a door if there's. one still around at all]