originallutece | (no subject)

[He shakes his head, and exhales.]

No. I wasn't depressed; if anything, I was eager to help the sick, despite whatever was happening to me. I was glad to.

[He splays a hand against his chest, as if it'd help illustrate his next point.]

I know it isn't possible for a sickness to have an actual weight, but that's what it felt like. As if it were a living thing, moving and growing within me. That my body itself was a bulwark against it spilling out and contaminating everything around it again.

[It sounds dramatic, he knows. But it's the only way he knows how to describe it.]

Would that we knew what disease it was.

[She means it, but it's quietly said, and the majority of her attention is focused on his expression. Rosalind's fingers wrap and rewrap tightly around the pen.]

. . . you're certain you're all right now?

[He extends his arms outwards, as if to indicate the whole of himself this time.]

I look quite all right, don't I? I won't have you worrying about me. It's nothing more than a memory.

[A beat.] I refuse to let it affect me in any sort of substantial way.

It's a bit too late for you to fuss about me worrying over you.

[She does worry about him. Oh, she won't be tossing and turning tonight, but with this kind of talk she can't help but be a touch concerned.]

. . . but I would say it certainly hasn't affected you, so you've succeeded there.

And it's a success that I intend on continuing into the foreseeable future.

[Said with confidence. Not exactly faux confidence, but perhaps he's overplaying it just a bit. After all, he's allowed to worry for others, but he'll not let people do the same for him. There's no reason to; he's been fine thus far.]

Care to hear about the others? Or have you had your fill of the day? [Of his memories, he means.]

Certainly not. Tell me them.

Then we'll start from the beginning this time.

I've remembered a variety of monsters existing. Well, four, I suppose, if we're to be specific. [A pause, before he begins listing them off on his fingers.]

An giant, with skin of iron, wielding a sword as big as its body. A large, electric hovering ball -- purple, brimming with electricity, with a Jack-o-lantern face. A little green creature with a knife and a lamp. And something called a "Behemoth", a massive, ferocious beast. Akin to a lion, with two massive horns on its head.

All nonsense, of course. But I know that somewhere, they either do or did exist.

Do you-- that is, did you-- encounter them in person? Or did you simply know of them, and remembered their existence here?

I remembered their existence. Though who knows? I may have encountered them. Another memory locked behind whatever wall it is keeping them from us.

[She hums her agreement. Her inclination is to pursue Ardyn for details, to pick apart each animal until she understands them precisely, but they'll be here all right if they do that. So . . . all right, and Rosalind nods.]

The second?

Edited (dw don't eat my tags) 2017-05-12 18:46 (UTC)

[Ah, the second one.

Only a flicker of hesitation, but he pushes through it.]

You'll like the second one. There's a conundrum in it.

I was on a train, but there was blizzard rushing through it. Through the train, Rosalind. And yet I stood there, as if it were nothing unusual, waiting in the aisle for someone stumbling towards me. A man wearing all black, though I cannot hope to remember what his face looked like. I know that he was angry, that he hated me. And yet I relished in his pain. I had never felt such a bitterness within me before.

Hard to reconcile with the memory of a world-traveling healer, hm?

. . . a bit.

[But not entirely. Everyone has enemies, and though she's very fond of him, Ardyn's personality is one that tends to purposely irritate. But . . . irritate is one thing. Bitterness, pain, hatred, those things aren't simply the result of a few flippant jokes and teasing remarks.]

Do you remember anything else about him? Did he say anything?

[She's correct in that assessment of him. Ardyn is a frustrating man, and he can annoy others who do not have the patience to deal with his sometimes patronizing manner, but there's a difference between this and cruelty. He would never wish suffering upon anyone, nor would he ever hope to harbor that kind of bitterness within him. It felt searing yet empty, as if hatred itself had left a great chasm in his chest.

Needless to say, that's not the type of person he is.]

He was yelling at me, through the blizzard. But as hard I try to remember, I can't. But he was so angry, Rosalind. He must have been wronged in most impressive way.

. . . perhaps.

[She glances down at the floor a few seconds, thinking, before meeting his eyes again.]

Or perhaps not. Perhaps you stopped him from doing something loathsome, or horrifying. Perhaps there was a justification for why he hated you in his mind, yes, but that doesn't mean you were inherently wrong, Ardyn.

[He gives her a look that flickers with the faintest appreciation at her attempts to twist it around with a positive spin.]

...Yes, I know. It's foolish to jump to conclusions when we don't have the full narrative available to us. Any number of things could have led up to that point.

But everyday it bothers me that I don't know what. You'd feel the same way, I'm sure.

Yes.

[To say the least. Bothers isn't the right verb; vex might better suit. He'll certainly hear all about it; she can't imagine she won't spend hours scowling down over the inconsistency of all the jumbled memories.]

. . . that's three. The train, the healing, and the animals. The fourth?

[Ah, the fourth. The one everyone finds so dreadfully amusing. He supposes he does, too, in a way.]

The attire I used to wear! [He grins.] What a glorious thing it was. I had a wing, you know.

[what.]

A wing. Just the one?

One wing, worn on the shoulder, extending past my arm. Black... feathery, like wings often are.

Sort of . . . sticking up?

[She grabs a spare sheet of paper, and hey, that's not a half-bad doodle of a figure with a wing sticking out of his coat. She's got the length wrong, though; she's imagining something half an arm's span.]

[He gives a little "ha" at her attempt.]

No, not quite like that.

[He grabs at another pen next to him, clicking it and doodling on a sticky note. Ardyn's no artist, but it also isn't too bad. I mean, it obviously looks nothing like this but pretend he's drawn the wing-arm part rather accurately.

He slides the sticky note pad to her.]

There.

Huh. I assume the choice was purely aesthetic?

[You Final Fantasy weirdo, but at least there's not 308138 zippers.]

[he is the Worst Dressed Final Fantasy too]

Aesthetic, or even maybe symbolic. Why else would I wear something so... impractical?

[And that's a harsh criticism coming from a man who dresses as, ah, eccentrically as Ardyn.]

If I was a healer, maybe I was a religious man as well.

God, I hope not.

[The words are out of her mouth before she realizes it, and she wrinkles her nose.]

. . . though it's certainly possible.

[He looks at her with bemusement, grin skewing lopsided.]

You'll not offend me. I'm not a particularly religious man myself.

...Well. Not in this lifetime.