[ 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 ]
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but he'll turn to look behind him for the sound, and the smell. a sweet-smelling haze, right? ]
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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. ]
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and then, very gently, reaching out to touch her back. ]
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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. ]
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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 ]