[She shivers unseen, though she doesn't turn to face him in the darkness. No, she can't imagine that, not really, and she knows it. There's something relentless in his voice, but of course there is. She's having nightmares after a few weeks; she can't imagine having to live with this for two thousand years.
Could she stand it? But that's irrelevant. He has to, regardless of ability or willpower. He can't die, he can't even incapacitate himself, and so the only recourse left is to cope as best he can.]
That wasn't a concern.
[It really wasn't, because she doubts she could hurt his feelings so easily.]
Do you want me to? You keep suggesting it . . . does it make you uncomfortable to see me like this? Immortal and struggling with the very thing you struggle with . . . I'm the first one in an eternity to go through what you've gone through. I'm the only other person in all the worlds who's had a taste of what it is you've gone through.
[Now she turns, though she can't see him.]
You used to be a healer . . . do you want me to free myself purely because you yourself can never do such a thing? Or because you wish to save someone one last time?
[How quickly she delves straight into the heart of the matter. Cutting through bone and sinew and piecing into what he truly felt -- how simultaneously frustrating and disconcerting, how keen Rosalind could be. He should be impressed, he would be impressed, if hearing it did not feel as if it exposed some kind of vulnerability in him. Like hands tearing open his rib cage to show his beating heart within.
There's no sound at all for a long moment, just a stillness, not even the rhythm of his breath.]
I should think that I'd prefer that you keep it, so that I can experience what commiseration must feel like, after all these long years.
[It's worded as if it must be a joke, and yet one might parse something more serious in it than that. She's right, that no one else has experienced even a sliver of what he's gone through. That those from Eos would look at him with disdain and hate -- rightfully so -- but also assume that they know what kind of person he is; that is the fastest track to getting under his skin, because they don't know. How could they? They didn't understand.
Rosalind has glimpsed at what ails him, even if it were not the full brunt of he experience. In some ways, this bothers him in ways he didn't expect. And in some ways, he rather enjoys that she may suffer in some similar manner as he.]
My days of healing are long gone, my dear. [The flame in his hand comes back to life, casting its odd shadows again.] My role isn't to save anyone these days. I merely wonder if you understand just what it is you've taken into you, what lives under your skin now. And I'm jealous, admittedly, that you could free yourself from it on a whim.
[For just a moment, he'll see her eyes have gone black once more. It fades with in a second, as does the gathering of energy in her hand, but that's all right: all she wanted was to drive the point home for him.]
I'm not an empathetic person, as a rule. But I think for you, Ardyn, I might just be able to commiserate.
[She says it as tartly as he does, and means it just as much as he does.]
I'll keep it for the moment. And if it should grow unbearable, I'll sever our bond. But I shan't give up on it so easily.
[And in that moment Ardyn is still again, until the darkness dissipates from her eyes and they appear normal, as they should be.]
For me?
[Careful, Rosalind. That is an admission that means more to Ardyn than it would to most people. That someone would be there, suffering, for his sake, for his own comfort. He's been without that, forcefully deprived of it, for so long. It's enough for him to immediately want to push it away, because how he is supposed to parse that when she says it so casually?
Well. In the end, he knows it won't matter. She'll be rid of it soon enough -- there's only so much that she'd be able to take, as strong or stubborn as she was. Ardyn knows it.]
Do what you like, of course. But you're certainly under no obligation for my sake.
[She might rid herself of it just to be contrary if she thought it was solely for his sake. She isn't a bleeding heart and she's most certainly not about to suffer solely to soothe a man she's known less than half a year.
But . . . for me, he asks, and yes, she'd meant precisely what she'd said. For him, because she might not know him well, but she knows enough. She knows she's never met anyone like him before; she knows that they're more alike than either of them want to admit.
Immortal and inhuman, something corrupted from humanity and looked at with a distrustful eye; something eager to destroy the world, for no other reason than the world had hurt them. Something different, even here, where supposedly all differences are to be wiped clean. Oh, yes, they're alike, and despite herself, despite her constant irritation with him, Rosalind feels something akin to kinship with him.
Her husband. God. For all they'd banked on gaining one another's powers, she suspects neither of them were prepared for this.]
[It's telling how quickly that answer leaves his lips. Not out of stubbornness, or some silly thing like embarrassment. It is spoken in haste, in assuredness, because it is drawn out from his own experiences. It is the only truth that he knows, that those who claim to help will all disappear, one way or another. Such is the life of an immortal, and before he was immortal, such was the sickening truth regarding those who had pretended to care -- his family, his people, friends that turned away so quickly at the very thought of him twisting into something inhuman. Perhaps if he had even a smallest pillar of support at the time, things would've turned out differently for him, but Ardyn no longer dwells on these what ifs. Only that what happened did happen, and it left an acrid taste in his mouth, let his humanity rot and his heart to turn cruel.
So, yes. It is impossible to believe. He doesn't believe her to be lying, but he has little faith in how long this rather novel idea of hers will last in her head.]
Wayward sentiment will get you nowhere. [The fire in his hand vacillates between flickering bright and waning, indicative of magic just left to burn raw.] But as I said, do what you like.
[Well, she won't try and convince him with words. She doubts there are any that would do the trick, frankly, and she doesn't blame him. Evidence is the only thing that will work, and to that end . . .
To that end, time will be her ally. But in the meantime, she'll do as she likes, and let those words rattle around his head.]
There's never been a moment in my life where I haven't, Ardyn Izunia.
[But they've ruins to explore. Rosalind strides forward, heading towards the wall. There are runes there, carved into the stone and faded by time; she traces over them gently.]
I don't suppose you've a piece of paper and some pens, hm?
[Easy enough to move on from the subject when it's already been settled in his mind. In both their minds, apparently, and Ardyn will not argue the point or bring it up again.
So he follows, his strides as even and casual as before. Though at her question, he raises a brow.]
What do I look like, an office supply store?
[He is not a walking storage space, Rosalind. Except he totally is.]
But he exhales, and with his free hand, produces a notebook and a pen in a sharp flash of magic. Yes, he comes prepared with the most basic items, though there really isn't much more than that right now. (He isn't like some Lucis Caelums, who keep an entire swath of camping gear in their hammerspace.)
The notebook has a few scribblings in it; mostly observations of Wyver and a sketch or two of a dragon, but that's about it. Most of it remains blank, and he feels comfortable enough handing the items to her.]
Well, well. A supply store and husband all in one. Come kneel by me, please, I need the light--
[Because she's going to sketch out these symbols. Carefully settling on her knees, she sets the pad on her thighs and peers up at the symbols. A few moments pass, and she adds:]
[The way their shadows twist at strange angles reveal that he does kneel next to her after a moment or two. The flame settles back into something steady, a boon for her to work by.
He shrugs.]
They wouldn't stay still.
[They're decent enough sketches, because Ardyn has an eye for detail, but they're unfinished.]
[His smile twists at that. It's something he's thought about, perhaps more than once, though shared with no one. Though if Rosalind has brought up the subject, he supposes it wouldn't hurt to speak in hypotheticals.]
Even if I have been brought down to the level of being... mortal in that way, then I can tell you with certainty that it would still take an inordinate amount of effort to kill me.
[And that's not necessarily a matter of pride. It's merely spoken as if it were truth -- he knows himself better than anyone else, after all. He can feel the Starscourge swirling in him, like a storm just under his skin. Even here, it would not release him so easily.]
And I have a habit of returning from what most people would call a state difficult to revive from. But yourself? [A hand to prod at her shoulder, just to be annoying.] Flesh and blood, now? As easily injured as a normal person?
[She waves a hand at him, though she doesn't yet turn.]
And I've no idea. I suspect no, not entirely normal; likely more resilient than your average human, but by no means immortal. As you may imagine, I've little desire to test it out to the extreme.
[This is where never having had siblings comes back to bite her; she has no idea how to stop this. Rosalind swats him this time, turning to scowl back at him.]
Stop it. I wonder if you'd know of them regardless, frankly. Would you feel it if I died? Perhaps. We're bonded on more than just a ceremonial level.
[Ardyn had a sibling once, but We Sure As Hell Don't Talk About That.
Still, he pulls his hand away when she swats at him, easy as you please.]
Testy, testy. [A click of his tongue.] I assume I would feel it. The darkness you've borrowed from me should return to its rightful home, and I would lose what talents you've granted me. Impossible to miss, if not feel.
Don't prod at me like a child and I shan't grow testy.
[But now that he's gotten her attention again, she might as well face him properly (besides which, it's a bit undignified, kneeling down and chatting to him while he's still standing). So she gets to her feet, tearing at the notebook paper to free it.]
Have you been using my talents, then? I have yours.
[He's undeniably stronger than her, but still Rosalind reaches for his hand, holding it tightly.]
The former. And you, first and foremost, though I gave Prompto a bit of a start doing that. But Robert as well. It's much more freeing to walk about as a man, especially at night.
[He is stronger, but he just doesn't move his wrist, letting her hold onto it if she so wishes.]
You've been walking around as me? [And she ran into Prompto? Gods, if he could only have seen his face then.] I'm sure you terrified Prompto, but that's nothing particularly new.
I would suggest that you pick an easier subject to mimic, however. [Rosalind acting like him... his mind is trying to imagine how that might've looked.]
[It only lasted a few seconds, thank god, but he's correct: it did terrify him. She still doesn't release him, though her attention is for the moment focused back towards him instead of his hand.]
So concerned I'll get it right? Or do you just dislike the thought of anyone doing something under your name?
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originallutece) wrote2017-09-22 05:41 pm
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Could she stand it? But that's irrelevant. He has to, regardless of ability or willpower. He can't die, he can't even incapacitate himself, and so the only recourse left is to cope as best he can.]
That wasn't a concern.
[It really wasn't, because she doubts she could hurt his feelings so easily.]
Do you want me to? You keep suggesting it . . . does it make you uncomfortable to see me like this? Immortal and struggling with the very thing you struggle with . . . I'm the first one in an eternity to go through what you've gone through. I'm the only other person in all the worlds who's had a taste of what it is you've gone through.
[Now she turns, though she can't see him.]
You used to be a healer . . . do you want me to free myself purely because you yourself can never do such a thing? Or because you wish to save someone one last time?
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There's no sound at all for a long moment, just a stillness, not even the rhythm of his breath.]
I should think that I'd prefer that you keep it, so that I can experience what commiseration must feel like, after all these long years.
[It's worded as if it must be a joke, and yet one might parse something more serious in it than that. She's right, that no one else has experienced even a sliver of what he's gone through. That those from Eos would look at him with disdain and hate -- rightfully so -- but also assume that they know what kind of person he is; that is the fastest track to getting under his skin, because they don't know. How could they? They didn't understand.
Rosalind has glimpsed at what ails him, even if it were not the full brunt of he experience. In some ways, this bothers him in ways he didn't expect. And in some ways, he rather enjoys that she may suffer in some similar manner as he.]
My days of healing are long gone, my dear. [The flame in his hand comes back to life, casting its odd shadows again.] My role isn't to save anyone these days. I merely wonder if you understand just what it is you've taken into you, what lives under your skin now. And I'm jealous, admittedly, that you could free yourself from it on a whim.
[Where he cannot.]
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I'm not an empathetic person, as a rule. But I think for you, Ardyn, I might just be able to commiserate.
[She says it as tartly as he does, and means it just as much as he does.]
I'll keep it for the moment. And if it should grow unbearable, I'll sever our bond. But I shan't give up on it so easily.
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For me?
[Careful, Rosalind. That is an admission that means more to Ardyn than it would to most people. That someone would be there, suffering, for his sake, for his own comfort. He's been without that, forcefully deprived of it, for so long. It's enough for him to immediately want to push it away, because how he is supposed to parse that when she says it so casually?
Well. In the end, he knows it won't matter. She'll be rid of it soon enough -- there's only so much that she'd be able to take, as strong or stubborn as she was. Ardyn knows it.]
Do what you like, of course. But you're certainly under no obligation for my sake.
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[She might rid herself of it just to be contrary if she thought it was solely for his sake. She isn't a bleeding heart and she's most certainly not about to suffer solely to soothe a man she's known less than half a year.
But . . . for me, he asks, and yes, she'd meant precisely what she'd said. For him, because she might not know him well, but she knows enough. She knows she's never met anyone like him before; she knows that they're more alike than either of them want to admit.
Immortal and inhuman, something corrupted from humanity and looked at with a distrustful eye; something eager to destroy the world, for no other reason than the world had hurt them. Something different, even here, where supposedly all differences are to be wiped clean. Oh, yes, they're alike, and despite herself, despite her constant irritation with him, Rosalind feels something akin to kinship with him.
Her husband. God. For all they'd banked on gaining one another's powers, she suspects neither of them were prepared for this.]
. . . for you. Is that so impossible to believe?
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[It's telling how quickly that answer leaves his lips. Not out of stubbornness, or some silly thing like embarrassment. It is spoken in haste, in assuredness, because it is drawn out from his own experiences. It is the only truth that he knows, that those who claim to help will all disappear, one way or another. Such is the life of an immortal, and before he was immortal, such was the sickening truth regarding those who had pretended to care -- his family, his people, friends that turned away so quickly at the very thought of him twisting into something inhuman. Perhaps if he had even a smallest pillar of support at the time, things would've turned out differently for him, but Ardyn no longer dwells on these what ifs. Only that what happened did happen, and it left an acrid taste in his mouth, let his humanity rot and his heart to turn cruel.
So, yes. It is impossible to believe. He doesn't believe her to be lying, but he has little faith in how long this rather novel idea of hers will last in her head.]
Wayward sentiment will get you nowhere. [The fire in his hand vacillates between flickering bright and waning, indicative of magic just left to burn raw.] But as I said, do what you like.
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To that end, time will be her ally. But in the meantime, she'll do as she likes, and let those words rattle around his head.]
There's never been a moment in my life where I haven't, Ardyn Izunia.
[But they've ruins to explore. Rosalind strides forward, heading towards the wall. There are runes there, carved into the stone and faded by time; she traces over them gently.]
I don't suppose you've a piece of paper and some pens, hm?
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So he follows, his strides as even and casual as before. Though at her question, he raises a brow.]
What do I look like, an office supply store?
[He is not a walking storage space, Rosalind. Except he totally is.]
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[Because that's totally up for debate here.
But he exhales, and with his free hand, produces a notebook and a pen in a sharp flash of magic. Yes, he comes prepared with the most basic items, though there really isn't much more than that right now. (He isn't like some Lucis Caelums, who keep an entire swath of camping gear in their hammerspace.)
The notebook has a few scribblings in it; mostly observations of Wyver and a sketch or two of a dragon, but that's about it. Most of it remains blank, and he feels comfortable enough handing the items to her.]
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[Because she's going to sketch out these symbols. Carefully settling on her knees, she sets the pad on her thighs and peers up at the symbols. A few moments pass, and she adds:]
I like the dragons.
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He shrugs.]
They wouldn't stay still.
[They're decent enough sketches, because Ardyn has an eye for detail, but they're unfinished.]
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[She doesn't glance over, but there's something like amusement in her tone.]
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I doubt I'd taste very appetizing.
[And how easily that amusement is reflected back.]
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Now, if I was in full command of my powers, they'd simply pass through me, as if I was a shadow. Now . . . mm. I don't know what might happen.
[The sketch is coming along wonderfully.]
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Even if I have been brought down to the level of being... mortal in that way, then I can tell you with certainty that it would still take an inordinate amount of effort to kill me.
[And that's not necessarily a matter of pride. It's merely spoken as if it were truth -- he knows himself better than anyone else, after all. He can feel the Starscourge swirling in him, like a storm just under his skin. Even here, it would not release him so easily.]
And I have a habit of returning from what most people would call a state difficult to revive from. But yourself? [A hand to prod at her shoulder, just to be annoying.] Flesh and blood, now? As easily injured as a normal person?
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[She waves a hand at him, though she doesn't yet turn.]
And I've no idea. I suspect no, not entirely normal; likely more resilient than your average human, but by no means immortal. As you may imagine, I've little desire to test it out to the extreme.
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Well, should you wish to, do let me know of the results, hm?
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Stop it. I wonder if you'd know of them regardless, frankly. Would you feel it if I died? Perhaps. We're bonded on more than just a ceremonial level.
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Still, he pulls his hand away when she swats at him, easy as you please.]
Testy, testy. [A click of his tongue.] I assume I would feel it. The darkness you've borrowed from me should return to its rightful home, and I would lose what talents you've granted me. Impossible to miss, if not feel.
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[But now that he's gotten her attention again, she might as well face him properly (besides which, it's a bit undignified, kneeling down and chatting to him while he's still standing). So she gets to her feet, tearing at the notebook paper to free it.]
Have you been using my talents, then? I have yours.
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[P o k e.]
I have! I'll be the first to admit that teleportation has its advantages over warping. It's faster, and less noticeable, if you wish to not be seen.
Who have you been disguising yourself as? Or do you mean instead that you've been destroying trees?
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The former. And you, first and foremost, though I gave Prompto a bit of a start doing that. But Robert as well. It's much more freeing to walk about as a man, especially at night.
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You've been walking around as me? [And she ran into Prompto? Gods, if he could only have seen his face then.] I'm sure you terrified Prompto, but that's nothing particularly new.
I would suggest that you pick an easier subject to mimic, however. [Rosalind acting like him... his mind is trying to imagine how that might've looked.]
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So concerned I'll get it right? Or do you just dislike the thought of anyone doing something under your name?
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