After a moment, he unlatches his winter cloak and drops it on her shoulders. Which should be a kind gesture, but—memories like to interrupt at the worst junctures.
It's Imperial Year 1176 and the reign of King Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd, your father, comes to an abrupt end.
Because as it turns out—the finest knights of the land are still only human. Their blades don't even scrape free of their scabbards before the ambush hits. Some die in the first, shouting struggle. It's the unlucky ones that survive until fire catches through the camp, eating through canvas, carriages, carnage.Â
The stench of blood is sickly on its own, and it smells worse once it's burning. Smoke has a flavor. As you watch Glenn die, the scent reminds you of leather treated over a flame. It hits your nose, coats your throat; acrid and eerie-sweet. Coppery. Human. Glenn, who was quicker, stronger, nobler than them all, the gleaming future of Faerghus, has an expression so ugly with misery as he goes.
You watch your friend finally fall slack, but there is no racing instinct to survive—no crying or softly spoken farewells. Your thoughts hit distantly through his shock. Glenn's eyes are blank now, but his face is agony. You see them overtaken by the flames: friends, tutors, family. A knight who used to sneak you sugared fruits scrapes near your feet, begging for his life, but you just stand there through the last of his convulsions.
You stand there through it all, watching.
You take in every rotten face. All the blood, cracked and dry from the heat. You listen to each wretched, pleading word, because even the bravest man doesn't really want to die for anyone, and they all have so much to say about it, and you're the only one left to listen.
Your father, at least, has the decency not to beg, and the king of Faerghus's last words to you, his only son, are not a noble creed, but a scream for vengeance before his head is hacked clean off his neck. It isn't as hard to watch as you expect—it barely seems real. Incomprehensible that something like this could happen to the strongest man you've ever known.Â
That's all right. You have the next four years to comprehend it. You look at the men setting the flames, and dutifully learns those faces too. You will hear that voice—their voices—in your ears forever.
"Avenge us! Those who killed us... Tear them apart! Destroy them all!"
It's your father's version of a goodbye, a promise made, and it should give you strength. But a father's words are not a shield. Oaths won't stop a sword. And with no friends and knights left to die for you, the blade bears down on you next, and cuts just as easily. ]
she almost drops the cloak after the memory hits, but then her hands grip onto it so tightly that normally it would cut circulation. sally stares at dimitri for a second, and then takes a step closer to him. pauses. and another step. ]
[ it's jarring at first to be pulled out of something so vivid, but after he blinks and stares at the snow for a moment—he shakes his head, rubbing his temples with one hand. it's... unpleasant, but mostly in that someone else was dragged into it. ]
[ this place makes everything a spectacle. he considers her words, biting the inside of his cheek. the moment feels raw to him, always, memory share or not. ]
Mm, so I did. [ which should be a miracle, but he sounds ambivalent. it is said with a note of—a very particular sadness. a sort of regret. ] No one else did, unfortunately.
[ of several, this memory hits hard in a way he does not wholly comprehend. he can feel her desperation when this man passes on, her fear as she flails and struggles, and he knows there is something... transient to this scene, a murky space between the land of the living and the dead. he does not understand all that happens, which only makes it more eerie, familiar but not.
when they're pulled out of it, he feels himself shiver once, speaking without thinking, voice quiet. ]
[ her grip on him tightens for a second, before she lets go of his arm. confused, a little lost, so she just jumps to what she knows-- babbling very quickly, without pausing for breath. ]
That was weird, right? That was me, but-- what? Why do people keep saying 'Annie'? It doesn't really make any sense. He was dead?
[ Oh, he was not very good at comforting people when he was young, and he is certainly not now. But he stays near her, tentatively offering a hand if she needs it. ]
[ He seems very hesitant to touch her, but does carefully place his other hand over hers. Kindness week, probably, though the memory of her fear maybe have driven him to this anyway. ]
Why apologize? These things are not your fault.
[ He also just put her through the worst experience of his life, so... ]
[ it really is exhausting to feel everyone's trauma like this all day, though he can't complain. it's also been enlightening to see the framework that built the people here. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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but she just glances down, tilting her head slightly. ]
Oh... guess I am. Didn't noticed.
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After a moment, he unlatches his winter cloak and drops it on her shoulders. Which should be a kind gesture, but—memories like to interrupt at the worst junctures.
It's Imperial Year 1176 and the reign of King Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd, your father, comes to an abrupt end.
Because as it turns out—the finest knights of the land are still only human. Their blades don't even scrape free of their scabbards before the ambush hits. Some die in the first, shouting struggle. It's the unlucky ones that survive until fire catches through the camp, eating through canvas, carriages, carnage.Â
The stench of blood is sickly on its own, and it smells worse once it's burning. Smoke has a flavor. As you watch Glenn die, the scent reminds you of leather treated over a flame. It hits your nose, coats your throat; acrid and eerie-sweet. Coppery. Human. Glenn, who was quicker, stronger, nobler than them all, the gleaming future of Faerghus, has an expression so ugly with misery as he goes.
You watch your friend finally fall slack, but there is no racing instinct to survive—no crying or softly spoken farewells. Your thoughts hit distantly through his shock. Glenn's eyes are blank now, but his face is agony. You see them overtaken by the flames: friends, tutors, family. A knight who used to sneak you sugared fruits scrapes near your feet, begging for his life, but you just stand there through the last of his convulsions.
You stand there through it all, watching.
You take in every rotten face. All the blood, cracked and dry from the heat. You listen to each wretched, pleading word, because even the bravest man doesn't really want to die for anyone, and they all have so much to say about it, and you're the only one left to listen.
Your father, at least, has the decency not to beg, and the king of Faerghus's last words to you, his only son, are not a noble creed, but a scream for vengeance before his head is hacked clean off his neck. It isn't as hard to watch as you expect—it barely seems real. Incomprehensible that something like this could happen to the strongest man you've ever known.Â
That's all right. You have the next four years to comprehend it. You look at the men setting the flames, and dutifully learns those faces too. You will hear that voice—their voices—in your ears forever.
"Avenge us! Those who killed us... Tear them apart! Destroy them all!"
It's your father's version of a goodbye, a promise made, and it should give you strength. But a father's words are not a shield. Oaths won't stop a sword. And with no friends and knights left to die for you, the blade bears down on you next, and cuts just as easily. ]
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she almost drops the cloak after the memory hits, but then her hands grip onto it so tightly that normally it would cut circulation. sally stares at dimitri for a second, and then takes a step closer to him. pauses. and another step. ]
What was....? Dimitri.
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—Apologies. Do not mind it.
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[ there's a pause, and then she decides to just go for it and grab him by the arm, hooking hers around his. ]
But I do have a decorum of privacy, so I know when not to pry.
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Whatever is happening this week makes it very difficult not to pry. [ ... ] It is fine that you know. My life is something of a public record.
[ basically his whole continent knows about this particular event, awkward. ]
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[ but life doesn't quite work that way. ]
You... made it out, obviously.
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Mm, so I did. [ which should be a miracle, but he sounds ambivalent. it is said with a note of—a very particular sadness. a sort of regret. ] No one else did, unfortunately.
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[ she's really not the best at dealing with topics like this. so she just squeezes his arm, and then opens her mouth to say something--
but a memory hits them instead (stop at 52:06). ]
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when they're pulled out of it, he feels himself shiver once, speaking without thinking, voice quiet. ]
Annie...?
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[ her grip on him tightens for a second, before she lets go of his arm. confused, a little lost, so she just jumps to what she knows-- babbling very quickly, without pausing for breath. ]
That was weird, right? That was me, but-- what? Why do people keep saying 'Annie'? It doesn't really make any sense. He was dead?
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There are many things that don't make sense here.
[ It's okay. ]
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It really doesn't. [ ... ] Sorry. About that.
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Why apologize? These things are not your fault.
[ He also just put her through the worst experience of his life, so... ]
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[ especially when you have no idea what's going on. ]
This is so fucking weird.
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[ He does not say fuck. ]
I hope this doesn't continue all week...
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It would probably get tiring rather fast, right?
[ it already is. ]
You should take a walk with me.
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...If you like.
[ people inviting him to do things... ]
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[ and... it might be good to be on the move. standing around just feels like an invitation to stay caught in their thoughts. ]
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We can go.
[ even without his cloak he looks pretty comfortable outside, thanks to living in the frigid northlands his whole life and whatnot. ]
...Should I walk you somewhere?
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[ since right now she doesn't really have a destination in mind; she had been mostly walking around earlier just for the sake of it. ]
Were you on your way somewhere, actually?
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[ just outside to clear his head—he may sleep in the dorms now, but he doesn't spend a lot of time inside regardless. ]
I was just... sorting my thoughts. And enjoying the snow. There are long winters where I am from, so it reminds me of home, somewhat.
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[ she lifts up the side of it with her free hand. ]
You'll catch a cold, good sir.
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[ actually by now he has like three, at least. he really doesn't seem bothered by the weather anyway. ]
Besides, if I am near to freezing, all of you will pester me with blankets and pillows again. [ said more lightly than usual. ]
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[ dimitri..... ]
You're inside now, right? Viola said.
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