The Crossing Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thecrossingmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecrossinglogs2025-01-18 12:15 pm
thecrossingmods) wrote in thecrossinglogs2025-01-18 12:15 pm
THE CROSSING #1
THE CROSSING #1
It's time.
For more detail on the particulars of the event, be sure to refer to our info and planning post!
For more detail on the particulars of the event, be sure to refer to our info and planning post!
time to choose
— CALM BEFORE THE STORM
It likely isn’t a surprise, when The Ferryman speaks into your mind again. You’ve known The Crossing was coming, and for the past hours, days, or weeks (however you prefer to section your time in this place), you’ve been feeling it drawing closer.
You’ve felt the pull on your soul, guiding you to follow The River; you’ve felt the changes in the Cavern, and in yourself, a shift in atmosphere that seems to start in the humidity of the air and sinks deep down into your bones. You feel solid. More importantly, you feel vulnerable.
Those who want to pay the toll are invited to gather at The Ferryman’s point of vigil; those who don’t will at least have the draw of The Crossing to guide them.
If you have anything to say before the split, now is the time to do it.
— LIGHTS OUT
Because when the moment comes, it waits for no one.
The Lantern doesn't extinguish immediately. Those gathered with The Ferryman (and, perhaps, those gathered near The Ferryman) will see it: a precarious flickering of flame behind glass. The light shrinks, and with it comes a feeling of something else retreating, too — something that you may have understood was there without realizing it, or that you may have assumed was simply another aspect of the light itself.
The bubble of safety, you realize, is receding. And when The Lantern's Light finally goes out, so too does the shield keeping you separated from the wraiths prowling the tunnels.
The darkness closes in. The Cavern's glowing plants are now the only steady source of light in the entire chamber, which allows your eyes to adjust, but only so much; it becomes difficult to make out the faces of even those standing right beside you.
It's time, so says The Ferryman. Make your decision.
follow the leader
— PAYMENT COMES DUE
There is no pomp or ceremony associated with The Ferryman's toll collection. You need only to be willing, and ready.
The darkness seems to shroud The Ferryman more than it does the rest of you, somehow. You can't make out the features of their face, only hear their voice bidding you to step forward when you're ready. For any of you who might need a moment, The Ferryman will wait.
A mote of light appears in The Ferryman's palms as the toll is paid, growing in proportion to the number of memories it receives. It's small, but you can feel the influence of it: that protective bubble you felt recede when The Lantern extinguished grows again around the light, just enough to envelop the group gathered here.
Time to go, says The Ferryman. And even though you can't track their movements in the darkness, the light tracks it for you: over the lip of the land bridge, and down to the black River below.
Nowhere to go but forward. When you step off yourself (even if it takes a bit of psyching up to get there), you'll find that the drop is gentle, and that your steps suspend safely over the water.
Just don't get left behind.
— HEAR A VOICE THAT CAUSES YOU PAIN
And so, you journey.
You walk on the surface of The River as if it were a wide, black road. Ahead of you, that same mote of light follows in the steps of The Ferryman, illuminating the ripples they leave in the water as breadcrumbs for you to follow. The air above The River is cold, certainly, and sometimes the icy water might splash up onto your shoes or ankles — but The River is wide, and there's room enough to walk together, even if you can't see each other well. It's as comfortable as a journey like this might ever be.
But The Crossing is a trial. You didn't forget, did you?
It starts slow: sounds from the darkness that could be voices, unless it's been dark for so long that your ears are playing tricks on you? Shouts of anger, high-pitched laughter, cries of fury and despair.
Then there are words. They beckon to you from the darkness: some plaintive, some punitive. They want you to stop. They want you to stay. They want you gone. Most of the voices are unfamiliar to you, but at least one, you know very well.
You need to keep moving. If you lose sight of The Ferryman's steps, you run the risk of being lost in the Cavern forever. Or perhaps it's someone beside you who's on the edge of losing their focus, someone who needs you to help keep them on the path?
trust your gut
— FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE
The rest of you, left behind on the banks of The River, have only your wits, the contents of your pockets, and the pull of something beyond the darkness to help you on the journey. The darkness is smothering, but not completely impenetrable: you have the glow of the Cavern plants, the faint gleam of the toll group’s steps on the surface of The River, and anything you may have picked up before you got here.
You can travel together or alone, but you must move. The metaphysical pull on you is growing stronger and more insistent the longer you stay in one place, and the Cavern, before preternaturally silent and still, is beginning to stir.
The wraiths, once silent, shapeless, harmless shadows following you about the Cavern, have changed. Where before they were merely unsettling to look at, now they have become larger and more monstrous: sharp eyes and claws, wide eyes and mouths. Where before they were silent, seemingly both unable and unwilling to make any sound, now they wail: wordless cries of pain and anger giving away their positions in the darkness.
Some of them may even be familiar to you, once they get close enough; the wraiths that before had seemingly taken a liking to you, seeking you out and following you wherever you went, now seem dedicated to hunting you specifically.
What the wraiths want from you, it's hard to say. If they catch you, they will tear at you without strategy or direction, like a ravenous animal — or perhaps a terrified one.
Any injuries you sustain during this time, whether from the wraiths or otherwise, are just as real to you as they would have been when you were alive: you bleed, you break, and you feel every inch of the pain inflicted on you.
Nowhere to go but forward. If you follow the pull in your gut, you'll get to where you're going. One way or another.
on the other side
— A MOMENT OF RESPITE
Whichever trial you've chosen, there is, eventually, the end.
You feel it first in the atmosphere: a resettling of the off-kilterness that's been surrounding you. The air slowly becomes drier, and the darkness less punishing. The plants that line the walls of the Cavern become more and more rare, their light replaced by ambient light leaking in from somewhere above you.
For the group traveling with The Ferryman, the wide expanse of The River gradually becomes shallower and narrower, until it's hardly a trickle beneath your feet, winding through the cave system. For the group traveling on their own, there comes a point where the wraiths seem unwilling or unable to follow, their shrieks in the darkness growing further and further away.
You feel it next in yourself: a smoothing of your rough edges, aches and muscle pain and physical exhaustion melting away. For any injured on the journey, your wounds resolve themselves as if natural healing on fast-forward. Natural healing is not always the cleanest or the most comfortable, though; you might be left with scars, crooked fingers or noses, or some other lasting memory of what you risked to be here.
Lastly, once The River has narrowed enough and two groups have reunited again: The Lantern relights. The Ferryman, for all that they were nearly invisible to you in the darkness, seems just the same as they were before. You made it through, they tell you, with no small amount of warmth and pride. Let's take a load off.
You should rest. If you took anything from the Cavern to help you on your journey, you'll find that it's gone from your pockets — when did that happen? Did you set it down? It's been such a long journey, it could have been a lapse of memory.
A memory? Ah, there's something else gone too, isn't there? Willingly or otherwise. If you try to reach for it now, it's like dust in the breeze, or a dream upon waking. You know it was there once, but the harder you try to recall it back, the thinner the details get. Eventually, you might not remember even that there was something to forget.
Congratulations. The Crossing is complete.
Image credits: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 + stock imagery unless otherwise noted
It likely isn’t a surprise, when The Ferryman speaks into your mind again. You’ve known The Crossing was coming, and for the past hours, days, or weeks (however you prefer to section your time in this place), you’ve been feeling it drawing closer.
You’ve felt the pull on your soul, guiding you to follow The River; you’ve felt the changes in the Cavern, and in yourself, a shift in atmosphere that seems to start in the humidity of the air and sinks deep down into your bones. You feel solid. More importantly, you feel vulnerable.
Those who want to pay the toll are invited to gather at The Ferryman’s point of vigil; those who don’t will at least have the draw of The Crossing to guide them.
If you have anything to say before the split, now is the time to do it.
— LIGHTS OUT
Because when the moment comes, it waits for no one.
The Lantern doesn't extinguish immediately. Those gathered with The Ferryman (and, perhaps, those gathered near The Ferryman) will see it: a precarious flickering of flame behind glass. The light shrinks, and with it comes a feeling of something else retreating, too — something that you may have understood was there without realizing it, or that you may have assumed was simply another aspect of the light itself.
The bubble of safety, you realize, is receding. And when The Lantern's Light finally goes out, so too does the shield keeping you separated from the wraiths prowling the tunnels.
The darkness closes in. The Cavern's glowing plants are now the only steady source of light in the entire chamber, which allows your eyes to adjust, but only so much; it becomes difficult to make out the faces of even those standing right beside you.
It's time, so says The Ferryman. Make your decision.
follow the leader
There is no pomp or ceremony associated with The Ferryman's toll collection. You need only to be willing, and ready.
The darkness seems to shroud The Ferryman more than it does the rest of you, somehow. You can't make out the features of their face, only hear their voice bidding you to step forward when you're ready. For any of you who might need a moment, The Ferryman will wait.
A mote of light appears in The Ferryman's palms as the toll is paid, growing in proportion to the number of memories it receives. It's small, but you can feel the influence of it: that protective bubble you felt recede when The Lantern extinguished grows again around the light, just enough to envelop the group gathered here.
Time to go, says The Ferryman. And even though you can't track their movements in the darkness, the light tracks it for you: over the lip of the land bridge, and down to the black River below.
Nowhere to go but forward. When you step off yourself (even if it takes a bit of psyching up to get there), you'll find that the drop is gentle, and that your steps suspend safely over the water.
Just don't get left behind.
— HEAR A VOICE THAT CAUSES YOU PAIN
And so, you journey.
You walk on the surface of The River as if it were a wide, black road. Ahead of you, that same mote of light follows in the steps of The Ferryman, illuminating the ripples they leave in the water as breadcrumbs for you to follow. The air above The River is cold, certainly, and sometimes the icy water might splash up onto your shoes or ankles — but The River is wide, and there's room enough to walk together, even if you can't see each other well. It's as comfortable as a journey like this might ever be.
But The Crossing is a trial. You didn't forget, did you?
It starts slow: sounds from the darkness that could be voices, unless it's been dark for so long that your ears are playing tricks on you? Shouts of anger, high-pitched laughter, cries of fury and despair.
Then there are words. They beckon to you from the darkness: some plaintive, some punitive. They want you to stop. They want you to stay. They want you gone. Most of the voices are unfamiliar to you, but at least one, you know very well.
You need to keep moving. If you lose sight of The Ferryman's steps, you run the risk of being lost in the Cavern forever. Or perhaps it's someone beside you who's on the edge of losing their focus, someone who needs you to help keep them on the path?
trust your gut
The rest of you, left behind on the banks of The River, have only your wits, the contents of your pockets, and the pull of something beyond the darkness to help you on the journey. The darkness is smothering, but not completely impenetrable: you have the glow of the Cavern plants, the faint gleam of the toll group’s steps on the surface of The River, and anything you may have picked up before you got here.
You can travel together or alone, but you must move. The metaphysical pull on you is growing stronger and more insistent the longer you stay in one place, and the Cavern, before preternaturally silent and still, is beginning to stir.
The wraiths, once silent, shapeless, harmless shadows following you about the Cavern, have changed. Where before they were merely unsettling to look at, now they have become larger and more monstrous: sharp eyes and claws, wide eyes and mouths. Where before they were silent, seemingly both unable and unwilling to make any sound, now they wail: wordless cries of pain and anger giving away their positions in the darkness.
Some of them may even be familiar to you, once they get close enough; the wraiths that before had seemingly taken a liking to you, seeking you out and following you wherever you went, now seem dedicated to hunting you specifically.
What the wraiths want from you, it's hard to say. If they catch you, they will tear at you without strategy or direction, like a ravenous animal — or perhaps a terrified one.
Any injuries you sustain during this time, whether from the wraiths or otherwise, are just as real to you as they would have been when you were alive: you bleed, you break, and you feel every inch of the pain inflicted on you.
Nowhere to go but forward. If you follow the pull in your gut, you'll get to where you're going. One way or another.
on the other side
Whichever trial you've chosen, there is, eventually, the end.
You feel it first in the atmosphere: a resettling of the off-kilterness that's been surrounding you. The air slowly becomes drier, and the darkness less punishing. The plants that line the walls of the Cavern become more and more rare, their light replaced by ambient light leaking in from somewhere above you.
For the group traveling with The Ferryman, the wide expanse of The River gradually becomes shallower and narrower, until it's hardly a trickle beneath your feet, winding through the cave system. For the group traveling on their own, there comes a point where the wraiths seem unwilling or unable to follow, their shrieks in the darkness growing further and further away.
You feel it next in yourself: a smoothing of your rough edges, aches and muscle pain and physical exhaustion melting away. For any injured on the journey, your wounds resolve themselves as if natural healing on fast-forward. Natural healing is not always the cleanest or the most comfortable, though; you might be left with scars, crooked fingers or noses, or some other lasting memory of what you risked to be here.
Lastly, once The River has narrowed enough and two groups have reunited again: The Lantern relights. The Ferryman, for all that they were nearly invisible to you in the darkness, seems just the same as they were before. You made it through, they tell you, with no small amount of warmth and pride. Let's take a load off.
You should rest. If you took anything from the Cavern to help you on your journey, you'll find that it's gone from your pockets — when did that happen? Did you set it down? It's been such a long journey, it could have been a lapse of memory.
A memory? Ah, there's something else gone too, isn't there? Willingly or otherwise. If you try to reach for it now, it's like dust in the breeze, or a dream upon waking. You know it was there once, but the harder you try to recall it back, the thinner the details get. Eventually, you might not remember even that there was something to forget.
Congratulations. The Crossing is complete.
Image credits: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 + stock imagery unless otherwise noted
no subject
What could he possibly say? He is not here to pass judgement on the dead, more so being left as one himself - nor can he say anything reassuring, even if he were one accustomed to offering comfort.
You cannot change this. He doesn't say it, but with the echo of Evru's voice in his ears, tensing in anticipation of the next quiet moment of despair, what else can he think but that?]
Min Reiss, it is over. You must not drift into the darkness yet.
CW: Titan Violence
Even without visuals, she can picture the huge titan - much broader and bulkier than the slim man had been - coming for hers. She remembers losing sight in one of its eyes after it was gouged out along with a chunk of its face, how the other titan extended such force that it outright ripped one of her titan's arms off. She remembers being unable to move her titan anymore, pinned to the ground as it ended up, and then--]
...
If it's over, then why am I not allowed to go? The darkness is where we'll be, in the end.
[With her loud adversary having fallen silent, the outcome in this replay nearly the same as it had been in the world of the living - with the small difference of her having been able to express her regret this time -, quieter voices may now be audible again. If Celehar hasn't overcome his own situation yet, he may hear that faint call for "Thara" again.]
no subject
[He starts the sentence with no easy end to it in his mind, but he doesn't even have the chance to stumble over the words before his breath is stolen entirely, the words becoming a strangled sound hearing Evru's voice say his name.
He's tried, he's tried so hard to bear up under the weight, but the halt in momentum here, caught vulnerable on the edge of wondering why they're still here, holding to the light instead of fading into peaceful slumber - his next breath edges towards a sob before he chokes it down with a hand over his mouth.
He's been forced to endure this grief before others, before, but the humiliation is no less raw for the repetition.]
My - apologies, Min Reiss.
no subject
But seeing Celehar, who's been a steadfast voice of reason, firm and calm like a pillar, falter like this, stirs a sense of alarm in her. That's right - he was already stressed when he came after her, wasn't he? He was suffering from his own metaphorical demons, yet he wanted to look out for her.
Less reserved than him, she steps up and takes him in her arms, trying to offer him comfort - perhaps in vain, given what a miserable figure she herself cuts right now, but with renewed vigour compared to a mere moment ago.]
Prelate Celehar! Please, talk to that man calling your name! Tell him what you must!
[Of course, she has no idea of who it is, or of their relationship - but bitter as her re-confrontation with her opponent was, she does feel a degree of solace from having been able to tell him that she wanted to help. It makes no difference, one could say, but among the many things causing her pain, the thought that she might be remembered as indifferent to the people she condemned to death was an especially hurtful thorn. She doesn't want a man who's been nothing but good to her and everyone else - solemn and without much warmth, but good - to let the same opportunity slip through his fingers.]
If you want me to, I'll cover my ears!
[Should he need her arms more to steady him, though, she'll keep lending them to him.]
no subject
In this moment, the attempt at comfort, no matter how comfortably made, strikes another blow against the dam already wavering. Another shudder runs through him.]
No, I -
[Thara, what could I do?]
Nothing I could say would change it.
How [And here, his voice wavers.] How could it? I condemned him to death.
no subject
But it pains you. Doesn't it?
[Without knowing the context, she can still sense his regret - it's practically palpable. The other man's voice, meanwhile, sounds resigned and hopeless rather than accusatory. Whatever their circumstances were, she can't imagine that there was malice at play.]
I'm in the same position - only a millionfold worse. I condemned my people to death through my inaction. If even I have the right to express myself, then so do you!
[Did she have the right? She's frankly not sure, but she was given the opportunity, and she couldn't not take it.]
Perhaps, he will somehow hear you.
no subject
He says;]
What apology could make it right? I chose my calling over him. I cannot apologize for it, when I would do it again, however it pains me. What could doing so change now? I was -
I was the only one he could possibly have turned to, and I betrayed that. He would not want to hear, surely, even if he could.
no subject
Nothing can make it right. But that doesn't make your apology meaningless. The man I just spoke with... he didn't want to take my life. He did it because he saw no other way to do what he felt he had to. Knowing that he wanted to protect those I couldn't...
[She struggles for words for a moment, feeling helpless to stop Celehar's body from wincing as that quiet voice says his name once again.]
...
I don't hold it against him. In a way, I'm almost grateful. He won't be able to use the power he took from me - not to its full extent -, but... maybe he'll be able to save at least a few people. Maybe he'll be able to save his family.
[She's not sure if what she's saying makes sense to Celehar, but knowing that man's intentions does console her. Had he entered her family's chapel and demanded her powers without further explanation, how different would her image of him have been, and how much more would she resent her death?]
In the same way, knowing how heavy a choice it was for you, how you wish you could have done both - saved his life and fulfilled your duty -, and how much you still keep him in your thoughts, may console the one speaking to you.
no subject
[It's not anger in his voice, when he responds, turning a heavy gaze on Frieda. In the faint light, it's hard to make out the fine lines of his face, but there's such strain there, a piling and spilling over of a grief long-banked.]
No, he -
Who was that man to you? When he killed you? A stranger? A stranger, who killed you, in the end.
[Harsh, maybe - his natural bluntness is harder to smooth over in grief.]
Not - the only man in the world you thought you could trust.
no subject
When he asked you for help, was it with genuine hope that you'd aid him? Did he know of your duty?
[Did Celehar's friend(?) hope that he'd betray his oath for his sake? Or did he merely choose him as his confessor, so that he'd hear of his sin - whatever it was that led to his death - from his own lips rather than through hearsay? Of course, even Celehar may not know - and if the former is true, then there really may be no consolation.]
no subject
It would be easier if Evru would curse him for what he'd done. In death, even if he could not comprehend it in life. His anger would have made the wound clean, rather than leaving this hurt to fester and scar through Celehar's heart as it has. Instead he's left with this tumult. The ache of knowing that Evru committed so terrible an act. The guilt in knowing his desperation. The shame, and the despair of it all.]
It was not my help he asked. He did not know - not until they took him. In death I cannot be a comfort to him, for it was by my word he came to be executed, Min Reiss.
[He tries, so hard, to keep his voice steady, but on 'executed' it cracks, more rasp than spoken. He shakes his head.]
We must keep walking.
no subject
For that to have been his punishment, his sin must have been severe. In turning him in to the authorities, you did right by the person or people he harmed.
["Killed", more likely, it death was deemed a fit sentence. Yet, that man's voice sounds so defeated, so broken - not angry or aggressive at all. She's sure she heard him say that he saw no other way out of his situation. If she can excuse her own killer, who's to say that she wouldn't excuse this man, too, if she knew of his circumstances?]
...
Do you want to move on?
[She hardly feels motivated. While her current state, free from her ancestor's vow, enabled her to express her regret, the facts remain the same: She abandoned her own people and let the Founding Titan, a threat to the wider world, fall into the wrong hands. Celehar's similarly unsolvable dilemma only adds to her unhappiness.]
no subject
For all his pain, Celehar hasn't yet felt the urge to cry. He's wasted all the tears he has on this, or so he thought, years ago, when the wound was still fresh. He'd thought it a hollow ache that grieved him but was not so fresh that he could not carry on.
But that single questions sets his eyes blurring. He takes a breath, then lifts his hand to his face, a quick swipe of his sleeve to mask the damp eyes, adding an attempt to smooth away the curls coming lose from his braid, a poor attempt to mask the original need for the gesture.]
I loved him, Min Reiss.
[And yet as plain a declaration as that is, he finds himself bracing for judgement and withdrawal. Does he expect it? To love a murderer. He can only remember the gentle misunderstanding of the emperor. The scorn of the court and his cousin Csoru. The head of the village's hatred for him and Evru both...
He does not mean to turn away Frieda's pain, to compare it with his own - she was caught in that same, terrible situation as Evru. She and that man both - to kill, or perhaps to die in not killing - and maybe, in the end, to die no matter what choice was made.]
Having made that choice, what more can I do, but keep moving? If I am too weak to keep going here, when I found the resolve to kill him?
no subject
She doesn't know what to say for a long moment, but she embraces him once more, trying to express her sympathy (and still unaware at how uncomfortable the close contact is to him).
She's not sure how to feel about his resolve to move on, either. Wouldn't it be fine to not have the wherewithal, to be so shattered by the deed as to give up? It takes her some rumination to find a reason to push herself forward.]
...
It wouldn't be shameful if all your resolve were gone after that, I think. But if we stay here, this will be our eternity, won't it? If we move on... if we move on, we'll forget.
[Once more, she wonders if they truly deserve that mercy, but while it's hard to forgive herself and Celehar seems to have equally little lenience towards himself, she doesn't want him to be tormented by this memory forever.]
no subject
He's not a man used to, or perhaps comfortable with, casual shared affection, but walking through this waking nightmare together is more intimate than just a simple gesture of comfort, sorely needed in a time of pain. His hands are gentle with awkwardness when he rests them on her shoulders, for just a moment.
Which is why it was the cost. A memory to give up, to finally fade into darkness. That's a light he has to hold onto. He's doing this for a reason. And Evru - ripping his heart out and leaving it behind, if he must. So he draws back, to meet her eyes, his face drawn.]
I do not want to forget him, [He admits, quietly.] And yet -
no subject
It's... it's tormenting no matter what, isn't it? To remember, but to forget as well. If we stay here, these may be the voices we'll hear from the whispering pools.
[It's nowhere near proven, but what could they possibly become if not wraiths, and where could they go but back to the cavern and its catacombs, with no light to guide them? Her tone turns softer as she asks:]
Did he return your feelings? Do you know?
[It's a hard question to ask, but the answer will determine whether she'll be able to encourage him to at least try to hold on to the memory of loving and being loved in kind.]
no subject
Yes.
[Does that make it better?
In the end... he doesn't know.]
Do you - think we will? Hear them again.
[He wasn't the one who listened to the pools, after all. The thought... he finds it disquieting. Will they even remember those voices? No wonder those shades malingered so.]
no subject
At his question, she uncertainly shrugs her shoulders.]
I don't know. When I put my head underwater, the voices were too indistinct to differentiate. But maybe, the wraiths could hear them clearly.
[Pure speculation, nothing they should risk their continued existence for - all the less since it'd only cause them pain. If they push on ahead, at least they have a chance of an eventual oblivion.]
If we follow the light, then... I don't know.
[Said light is more of a suggestion that a distinct landmark now, a faint shine like the glow left behind on one part of the horizon after the sun has set.]
no subject
Uncertainty, in death as in life.
[What a grim irony it is, isn't it? That the end is not the end. That this same pain plagues them here, together. That the question of continuing on in the face of pain still occupies them so.
He looks to her, remembers the pained determination in her voice as she called out into the dark. It seems strange, to use the formal inflections with someone who has heard - and known - so much. He doesn't consciously register the shift in his words now, won't until later, when the switch has become habit.]
... I wouldst not ask thee to remain, alone, in the dark.
no subject
In turn, she extends a hand to him.]
Let's walk together, then.
[Even now, she still needs the support. Following a light so faint and fleeting on her own, she might just give up and fall to her knees on the water to be swallowed up or found by the wraiths.]
no subject
The shivers still haven't quite left him, and he walks with his head turned towards the dark water below them, ears low - but he does walk. And in carrying on, it's some fragment of his calling, that surfaces to him - the need to listen to others.
It starts with a single low, cautious question.]
Thou'rt nobility?
no subject
Royalty.
[It's not a correction so much as a confession, delivered with a faint mirthless smile.]
But we lived as nobles, to hide from the people. Our duty was not to rule, but to keep those terrible powers from being used to oppress others ever again. We Eldians are a cursed race. We brought great suffering over our world.
no subject
but Royalty has him stumbling, nearly pulling his hand back.]
That -
[Before he catches himself. He is not in the Court, where improper behavior towards the Emperor would see him killed by the man's nohecharei, and even if this were, he's already dead. There's nothing more that can be done to him, on that measure. So he clears his throat, ducking his head and murmuring an apology, to listen to the rest, strange as it sounds to him.]
Sounds like a heavy burden.
no subject
...
It was. I was unable to speak of it to anyone, not even my own family. Can you believe that I volunteered for it - to be the one to inherit the lost history of the world, and the power to control the titans? I was an ignorant little girl to think that I could succeed where my uncle had failed, but... I wanted to free our people so badly. It was only after the succession ceremony that I understood why we have to live behind our Walls, that it's the only way to protect the outside world from our monstrousness and cruelty.
no subject
[The enthusiasm of the young, the determination to do right... yes. It takes a particular kind of strength, to face that and not be worn down by it. He thinks, briefly, of Edrahazivar VII - the young half-goblin Emperor. Assailed on all sides by his court, but determined to be kind despite it.
This, however, sounds different. He watches her, as well as he might in the dark.]
Behind the walls?
[The man calling to her... is that not something he spoke of? It has the weight of ritual and tradition behind the words, to his ear, more than simply the walls of a city.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)