[ When Lucien feels Amalthea reach out to him, he finds himself a bit too far out of reach. Just a hair. It was supposed to be the right time, he shouldn't have faced more than what he has already known, but he can feel himself elsewhere and her voice fading into the background.
She's so far away now and so is the church.
Viktor, almost solid to the touch to him, is nowhere to be found. Instead, what surrounds Lucien is first a burst of pink, then darkness... This isn't a void, no, there is a floor he can tread. Every once in a while, he hears incoherent whispers, but they tell him a story in their mumbles. Desire, love, disdain, despair. ]
the echoes of another life are clear enough to him, the memory of something he's already experienced making it hard for him to concentrate enough to pick out the voices, feel the emotions. the mirror is too close. tears streaming down the face of a dreamer.
the panic might fade enough after a moment for him to collect his senses, getting to his feet - listening for more. an almost too soft: ]
[ honestly? a relief. there's a calmness in silence he can appreciate. if he's going to die here, be scattered again, then he'd rather it be in silence.
[ There's another drop... But then Lucien can hear Dahut's voice. Yay, you made it back!
Eventually, he meets a wall, but it isn't quite opaque. It isn't uniform, either. It has the color of bone with grooves and striations running up and down, thin some place and thick in others. Another drop, but this time behind him.
[ blood and flesh and flesh and blood. a city made of the sinew of its people. he reaches out to run a few fingers over the arching bone, waiting at the wall for a moment to see if he can hear anything else.
but he'll turn to look behind him for the sound, and the smell. a sweet-smelling haze, right? ]
[ It seems to groan at the touch and it very much feels artificial. It's natural to the touch, but like bone, like nail, like teeth.
The floor is suddenly water and below the color looks deep, depths hidden behind its dark color. Lucien doesn't sink—on the Holy Week, he may walk on the reflective surface. Before him is a dark-haired woman, face down and back barely over the water... She isn't moving. ]
[ He gets a link to this soul, memories of happiness with a man... But the future isn't only about happiness. It's about stability. They're not memories he's familiar with.
But upon touching her, her form changes to someone familiar. There's no mistaking it even if it's the back of her head. It's Brevyn, floating about in this space.
He can save her without sacrificing the journal, if he wants to. ]
[ he doesn't know much about happiness, or stability. he's not sure which choice he would make.
his fingers curl up once the form changes - watching the body morph into one he's familiar with, like a metamorphosis. a butterfly. always her favorite. if you crack open a cocoon, inside is nothing but the liquid vitality of the caterpillar. a soup of all its most vital self, reshaping entirely into something new and beautiful and winged.
the thing about brevyn and the journal is they cannot exist at the same time, no matter how much he might have wanted that. what would have become of her? doomed to trek after him into the frozen wastes of Eiselcross with the others, skin marred by the red eyes, obedient to their every call and demand? The same fool's errand, fate-bound to doom and destruction and death?
resurrection is a tricky business. a good deal of it hinges upon the soul wanting to return. if it were possible, then--
if there was a time she was his, it's passed now. ]
[ ... The whispers return, they are hers. His favorite phrases, his favorite moments, their worst and their lowest, it fills his senses. Is it not enticing enough?
Brevyn rises from the water, pulling herself from this new prison, and grabs him by the ankle. She looks up at him with light in her eyes.
She says what he has always wanted to hear, the pink haze comes forth thick and blankets the area as another groan echoes behind him. A shadow casts over him, then beyond him—teeth.
But before Lucien can react, he feels every part of his body get crushed, grinding and chewed—then a smack to his face. A lot of cold smacks.
We're back in the church and Amalthea is smacking him in the face to wake the fuck up. GO SLEEP ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
She's so far away now and so is the church.
Viktor, almost solid to the touch to him, is nowhere to be found. Instead, what surrounds Lucien is first a burst of pink, then darkness... This isn't a void, no, there is a floor he can tread. Every once in a while, he hears incoherent whispers, but they tell him a story in their mumbles. Desire, love, disdain, despair. ]
no subject
the echoes of another life are clear enough to him, the memory of something he's already experienced making it hard for him to concentrate enough to pick out the voices, feel the emotions. the mirror is too close. tears streaming down the face of a dreamer.
the panic might fade enough after a moment for him to collect his senses, getting to his feet - listening for more. an almost too soft: ]
H ... hello?
no subject
Then there's a sound of a water drip in the distance ahead. ]
no subject
following the sound. ]
no subject
Eventually, he meets a wall, but it isn't quite opaque. It isn't uniform, either. It has the color of bone with grooves and striations running up and down, thin some place and thick in others. Another drop, but this time behind him.
There's a sweet scent. ]
no subject
but he'll turn to look behind him for the sound, and the smell. a sweet-smelling haze, right? ]
no subject
The floor is suddenly water and below the color looks deep, depths hidden behind its dark color. Lucien doesn't sink—on the Holy Week, he may walk on the reflective surface. Before him is a dark-haired woman, face down and back barely over the water... She isn't moving. ]
no subject
and then, very gently, reaching out to touch her back. ]
no subject
But upon touching her, her form changes to someone familiar. There's no mistaking it even if it's the back of her head. It's Brevyn, floating about in this space.
He can save her without sacrificing the journal, if he wants to. ]
no subject
his fingers curl up once the form changes - watching the body morph into one he's familiar with, like a metamorphosis. a butterfly. always her favorite. if you crack open a cocoon, inside is nothing but the liquid vitality of the caterpillar. a soup of all its most vital self, reshaping entirely into something new and beautiful and winged.
the thing about brevyn and the journal is they cannot exist at the same time, no matter how much he might have wanted that. what would have become of her? doomed to trek after him into the frozen wastes of Eiselcross with the others, skin marred by the red eyes, obedient to their every call and demand? The same fool's errand, fate-bound to doom and destruction and death?
resurrection is a tricky business. a good deal of it hinges upon the soul wanting to return. if it were possible, then--
if there was a time she was his, it's passed now. ]
no subject
Brevyn rises from the water, pulling herself from this new prison, and grabs him by the ankle. She looks up at him with light in her eyes.
She says what he has always wanted to hear, the pink haze comes forth thick and blankets the area as another groan echoes behind him. A shadow casts over him, then beyond him—teeth.
But before Lucien can react, he feels every part of his body get crushed, grinding and chewed—then a smack to his face. A lot of cold smacks.
We're back in the church and Amalthea is smacking him in the face to wake the fuck up. GO SLEEP ]