Scene Archives

has a handful of hair, again, but his grip is soft and his fingers careful, gently tracing her skull behind the ear, to the cheek, to the jaw, to the neck.

lets him, just as she’s let him do everything he’s asked of her. She leans into his touch, savoring it, before she lifts her eyelids to look at him. “So,” she begins, looking at him in the dim.

slightly looks down towards her, an eyebrow raised in silent question.

thinks carefully. There are things she wants to ask, things she wants to know, but there’s an order to these things. “What are you thinking?”

: “Things many and varied,” he starts, staring back up at the ceiling. “I marvel at the cycle of death and rebirth. I fume at the impossible taunting me so openly. I hope at your and Wolf’s resolve. I wonder at this feeling of incoming transience.” Looking back down at her. “I think as complicated as it all wants to be, I know no fear, and I feel no pain.*

: “Also that you could use another back rub,” he adds. “But there’s an order to these things.”

laughs, low in her throat, but she doesn’t look away. “You say you know no fear and feel no pain, but that’s not … precisely true, is it?” her eyes are locked on his, intent, searching. “When the rite was cast, the one which reminds?” She pauses, trying to think, trying to draw it to mind. “[Sorrowful Memory]. You saw something.”

exhales through his nose. “I did.”

: “Do you want to tell me?”

: “Not a problem! It will baffle us both,” he boasts, but only on the exhale.

: “It is brief, it is striking, and altogether meaningless.” ⁂

: “It… I, was alone. So very alone. In that loneliness, I was small. Nothing to compare myself to, but I knew I was small. I knew, and I knew I was cold. A cold that grips tight and long enough such that I forgot I was being cloaked by the lack of anything. Anything except the ground, chilled and pervasive in its own manner, cobblestoned so that balance was a task that a body had to work for, and a cold that stole warmth, as though the loneliness had not taken enough.” ⁂

: “Nothing else though, so really, what good was it?” he flippantly asks, focused on something a thousand feet beyond the ceiling.

🙧

reaches out, twining her fingers with his, drawing closer, like that could warm him from that kind of memory. “I asked you … yesterday, believe it or not, what you wanted, and what you intended. You gave me a very different–but very pleasant–answer yesterday but,” she traces a finger along his jaw, a nail down his throat, along his collar bone, “I want to know. Sininen, you who remembers only song and light and coldness, as we walk these strange paths, who do you want to be?”

thinks, and thinks, the questioning bringing his focus back from a far off space, to searching within himself, his eyes darting around making connections between unseen concepts and thoughts.

: “I want to be who I am. I want to take the next step. I want to smash the impossible problem. I want to punish the wicked, and wield justice. I want to brave the dark, and cleave the light.”

: “I am the hero- and that is who I want to be.”

considers that, and thinks of the heroes of Almachadta, shepherds of the season, bringers of the culling and the gleaming, planters of the new seeds and midwives of the new land. “I think,” she says carefully, “that we have known very different kinds of heroes. And I also think…” she catches her lip between her teeth, and falls silent. ⁂

: “I think that a hero cannot truly take the next step if he doesn’t know from whence he comes.” She says it apologetically, like she wishes it weren’t true, but she says it with certainty, her hand splayed wide over his collarbone and chest, right where his heart beats. 🙧

: “Hmm.” He raises his far hand to his chest, tracing the back of her hand with a fingertip, uncannily following the contours of her knucklebones, her veins.

: “The next step is a formless goal, and no less achievable. Hoisting the sword with pride in the heart- this is a step.”

: “And the world cannot, cannot say it did not happen. It can refuse to answer. It can heal around the scar. It can die, and become reborn over again.”

: “But it, and everything- all creation, knows that for a moment, it held its breath.”

pulls herself free, rolling herself on top of him, astride him. In the dim the light doesn’t catch the yellow in her eyes–they’re dark, dark brown, her hair falling in long, dark tangles in front of her, around her. “The world will never say it did not happen,” she says, and she draws burning gnosis up and through her, “but you are talking about a moment. A memory. A scar. Don’t you realize you are alive right now? That you are here, in front of me -right now-?” ⁂

: “Sinitöyhtönärhi. Awoken. I will get you your moment for creation to hold its breath, but you can’t walk forward for that alone.”🙧

reaches up with a hand, fingertips over her heart. “Hm.”

: “It will be riotous, and unmistakable, and also mine.” The dark gnosis floods the dim, and surrounds them both, threatening to snuff the flame.

presses him down further into the bed, and the tongues of flame catch the yellow in her eyes, and her breathing is slow and steady and certain. “You cannot consume me with your darkness. You will listen. You will live.”

leans down and kisses him. “Temper that tenebrousness of yours, Sininen. Live. And remember. You don’t have to remember alone.”

‘s eyes focus, and he embraces her as she comes down for the kiss, but no tempering happens, oh no. ⁂

: “I…” There’s a heaving in the room, space bending along an unseen axle. The song of Almachadta woven through the bark, seen as strings, flitting in five-dimensional space. The inbetween, full of nothing and everything. “…remember…”

.

does temper, now… slowly bringing the space back to its form, stitching up the burst seams, returning 180 degrees to its proper calculation.

: “That was brave,” she says, softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “That was heroic.”

: “It wasn’t alone,” he says, his eyes closing in an- unusual for him- closed eye, crow-feeted smile.

: “Hmm.” She rolls off him, curling into his side. “Well, on Almachadta, our epics rarely have one hero. A forest doesn’t grow from a single seed.”

: “So… I would… have a very rare, unique epic… yes, that does sound like me.” There’s a warble of tone in there, jokingly.

: “But… it would be very, very cold, indeed.”

: “And given the choice, and I do have that choice.”

: “I would rather it be warm, and with others.”

laughs, again, warm, real, less tense. “You do have that choice,” says agrees, easily, like she wouldn’t have forced the issue. But she’s always admired the finesse of the Sword-Saint with a story. Plain old Salme didn’t–well. Not there. Not yet. “Yeah? Show me.”

grins, and snakes an arm up and across her back, grabbing a shoulder and rotating about, pinning her both closer and deeper onto the bed.

pulls his boots on, securing them with a previously unseen buckle.

combs her fingers through her hair, frowning at him. “You’re going to have to help me fix this. Again. It’s becoming a pattern.”

: “It is an ongoing battle to tame the tangle.” He slyly grins, like he thinks he’s clever. “I will never give up!” He gets to work, still gentle, but quicker than before- this particular morning isn’t for loafing about.

hums appreciatively. “I had two more things I wanted to ask you. One is about memories. The other is–I’m not sure what it’s about. What would you like to hear first?”

: “Memories sounds like it’ll be an easy enough answer from an empty enough book.”

hums again, but with a slight frown. “A book isn’t empty if you simply can’t read the language,” she says, and then she shrugs. “The flowers you carry–sweet pea, purple hyacinth, hydrangea. Why those three?”

pauses his handiwork. “Do you know the meanings behind each flower?”

tilts her head back, like she could maybe see him if she could tilt back far enough, but to do so threatens to overbalance, so she rights herself. “No. I–hadn’t really thought that flowers might have meanings before. Uses, yes. Meanings? No.”

resumes untangling, and moves onto the beginning of braiding. “Neither do I!~” he says, singsongedly carefree.

: “But!”

: “A florist in the marketplace did seem to recognize them.”

: “And so I asked for their expertise, and this is what they said-“

: “The hydrangea is a thankfulness for understanding- not just, ‘you got my breakfast order correctly,’ but a gratitude from the soul. That which fills the gnawing desire to connect to another, a feeling that can only be wholly, consumingly selfish.”

: “…then again, a good breakfast also fills that same role, so maybe pancakes should stay in the conversation.”

laughs, but doesn’t let him drop it. “And the sweet pea? The hyacinth?”

: “The sweet pea, is of pleasure. Of a moment? Of forever? The florist wouldn’t specify, instead ducking behind their massive bear paws in some sort of shame. But also, they are used for goodbyes. A combination of both, maybe. ‘Thank you for everything, and farewell.’”

: “And the hyacinth…” He finishes one circular braid, giving it a few thoughtful taps. (These taps don’t do anything to further the construction, he’s just doing it.)

: “Purple in particular, is a sign of sorrow.”

: “Loss. Regrets. An apology to the addressed.”

: “A gentle budding that carries the broken heart.”

gets to work on the other side of her hair, now.

: “The florist said it’s an unusual composition, those three. But, again, no idea what it means means, if anything.”

: “But it’s got to, right? Those kinds of flowers don’t just fall onto strings like that fully formed.”

: “But when I wield a blade today, or tomorrow, it won’t stay the cut. “

: “(Also very curious… that flowers from… Valais? Would also be recognized here. But, that’s a mystery for another day.)”

: “There is a story, here, about a man. Beautiful, beloved of many gods. Gods on Almachadta are generally not jealous ones, but being beloved of too many gods is still no good. Beloved of the god of the light-through-the-leaves, and beloved of the god of the chill-wind-of-gleaning, and beloved of the god of rain-in-the-hottest-month, and beloved of the god of the death-of-promising-youths. He chose to belong only to the god of the light-through-the-leaves, because here that is a good god to belong to. And so they loved, and sang, and danced, and, one day, there was a game. And light-through-the-leaves threw a discus so hard it split the heavens. And his lover chased after it, caught it, even.” ⁂

: “But he had forgotten that he was also beloved of the death-of-promising-youths, who is as jealous as gods come on Almachadta, and so in catching this discus, he jumped too high, and he fell, and the ground split him open, and not even light-through-the-leaves could make him whole. Marked by fate. I don’t know the name of the man in the story, but the hyacinth has always been his flower.” ⁂

: “I truly hope you are not beloved by jealous gods, Sininen. I have enough gods to kill.”

🙧

clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “See, they had one fatal flaw in their plan.”

: “I would have simply been loved by all the gods and lived happily ever after.”

is absolutely smilng, like ‘yes this is a thing that could have happened.’

: “Simply. Of course.” He can hear the smile in her voice, even if he cannot see her face. She falls silent and thinks on the flowers, though she can’t make any sense of them either. “Whatever they mean, we’ll figure it out. Surely Aurelius will have an irritating theory about it.”

: “I’ll consider it a thought experiment.” He’s working the other braid into a circle. “And the other question?”

: “You asked a question. Very early. About … pulling a star from the sky, and forwarding its demise, as opposed to halting it. Do you remember that?”

: “I do.”

: “What did you mean by it?”

: “I wanted to know if, to save a world, you would break all your oaths and promises.”

makes a thoughtful sound at that. “I see. I was wondering if–it was like the Architect took us like. Pets, or specimens and so removed us from our context.” She sneers the Architect’s name, and if she was bitter about Aurelius yesterday (was it only yesterday) there is a core of incendiary fury there now. “Saving and taking. Hurting and healing. I–wasn’t sure.” ⁂

: “Though,” she says, a bit wryly, “I suppose my answer is apparent enough now.” 🙧

: “Oh yeah, absolutely. You blew right through them and are now making several challenging threats towards the gods themselves.”

: “But I mean.”

: “To change this cycle of Almachadta.”

: “It will definitively mean, that the role of the Sword-Saint, that has been passed and survived for however long, will cease to be.”

: “It will mean the Yeresh that are blessed by, and bless through, the Light- will be ruined texts in history.”

: “The cities and people you fight to keep alive will be forever changed.”

speaks, and there is a waiting note hanging from his words. “Are you ready?”

does not hesitate. “Yes.”

pauses, and takes a long, slow breath. “Yes. I’m ready. There will always be memories to keep, and there will always be stories to tell. And the Mask is an honor but it is also a burden. It is one that I can bear, that I chose to bear, but it is not an easy one to bear. And there have been many–too many, perhaps even most–who–well. Were hurt in ways no one should be hurt, even if they stood strong in the end. Traditions make us, but we can’t let them chain us.” ⁂

: “As for the rest. Isn’t that, too, living? Not knowing where the road will take us, but walking forward even in uncertainty? A wise fool told me something like that not too long ago.” 🙧

grimly chuckles, but honestly, it sounds more like he enjoys it. “Run toward what you fear with joy in the heart. That’s another one.”

: “That one sounds a little masochistic. Is it all right to shamble forth with some amount of dread? That’s been working out well for me.”

proudly claps her on the shoulders, braids secure, and done up with fresh sprigs of sweet alyssum. (But maybe it should be something else, now…?) “Now I know you’re in good spirits. Come, let’s have a toast with toast and see what trick Aury is going to pull. I was annoyed at first, but…”

: “I’m more angry at the door than anything else. So really, if he’s got a way around it, I’ll be cheering it on with a full chest.”

: “How very sporting of you,” she says, a bit dry, but she links her arm in his, pressing a kiss to his temple, and then opening the door. “Though,” she adds in a low voice, “if you’d like to choose different flowers for my hair you’re welcome to do so.”

: “I’m on the hunt.” He winks.

: “Ah- Badri! Good morning!” He makes no effort to disentangle himself.

freezes. And then, slowly, turns. “Badri.” She almost drops Awoken’s arm, but she doesn’t.

: “Smiling like what, Badri?” she asks pleasantly. Extremely pleasantly. Neutral, also.

mutters, seemingly under her breath but loud enough that everyone can hear, “well it certainly wasn’t lonely for you, mister sword-skank.”

: “Oh yes, she’s grown quite fond of several of us, it’s been a joy to witness her opening up. Just about everyone has benefited from her focused care and guidance.”

blushes. Because of course she does, and suddenly cannot quite look at either of them with either pleasant neutrality or snark.

blushes harder, and then mutters. “Don’t get too excited. Wait until you meet the second one. They’re both absurd. Worse than me, probably.” A pause, and then. “Maybe?” Then a wince. “Okay, maybe not. But. Still.”

swallows and says, “I love the rest of them too, of course. But.” She clings to the Awoken’s arm a little tighter, and manages to look the–man who is a father to her, if anyone is a father to her, in the eye. “You always did try to empower me to make my own decisions.”

: “Yeah, probably. A cougar of a poet spoke of such for a drink and a shaving of rock. ‘To smell his curls and tweak his ears / I’d chase him on a hunt / his two strong hands ‘round my neck / and his third leg in my–“

: “Well, you might have heard it before.”

“Yes. We were on our way to breakfast. And then, probably, elsewhere. Not on Almachadta. With any luck, you’ll have Ciet back. You should punch him.”

under her breath, to the … choice she has made two nights in a row, she says, “where on earth did you hear that? And why on earth did you bother to remember it?”

blinks and tilts his head. “In the Courtyard. It cut through the din, and I figured ‘I must carry this forward with me, to remember my travels.’ Hsieoañth was especially keen on rotating the meaning.”

: “You. Really, really don’t have to. There are. A lot of them. And I know them all.” There’s a tinge of despair to this admission.

: “Oh, okay then.”

: “Also we are… going somewhere else?” He looks at Salme, somewhat surprised, mulling something over behind the stare.

: “The … door? In the temple? The one Aury made you pout about?”

‘s eyes wander and finally settle on looking back at Salme. “Hm. I figured we’d solve the Almachadta problem first, but… yeeeeeeeeeah, it’ll probably be fine.”

: “Things aren’t gonna fall apart so easily!”

: “We can’t fix things by staying here, regardless.” She gives Awoken’s arm a squeeze, and then drops it so she can hug Badri. “We’ll explain at breakfast, but. I just. Thank you.”

easily understands the language of hugs and goes in for one!

feels safe, and home, and good, and waits a long, long moment to let go.