theo. (escutcheon) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-08-31 12:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, siri d'albis, theodore finch |
Who: Theodore Finch & Siri D'Albis
What: The path ahead.
Where: Emillion
When: Recently
Rating: PG-13, some dark and violent imagery, madness, etc.
Status: Complete!
The servants of the Finch estate had carefully tended to the fireplace in the study prior to his use of it. Theo looked up from his book from time to time, watching the flames and allowing his mind to wander. Not that he required more distractions--his life had taken another strange turn of late, and the company afforded to him had been sudden and peculiar, but not entirely unwelcome. If a friend was proven to be in need, then it was naturally his responsibility to provide some manner of aid. In this case, it seemed, that meant the simple effort of keeping Siri company. The mage was welcomed to stay for as long as she required it--and how long that might be, Theo couldn’t say, and so he merely took it all in with a shrug of his shoulders. That part was simple enough. But one could easily admit that entertaining guests was not something entirely suited to one of Theo’s moody character. Personable and amiable he was not, and had no ease with the usual social graces. Nevertheless, he would try in his own way to prove useful. Gazing into the fire until the image burned into the back of his eyelids, Theo blinked and tried to pay attention to his book once again, flicking to the next page impatiently with the gesture of one hand. While others might sit - she was perched, looking at the window as if she were expecting something (until the turning page caused her to shift her attention back to the now and glance at Theo with a smile). This place was a maze but not a frightening one and she found herself often at the heels of the Berserker whose madness encased her own. His lack of social niceties was never even considered, as that had never been the reason she had been drawn to him (it was the fire, the madness, the abyss that looked into something deep and dark — where he wore an armour of fire and spikes and made the earth tremble beneath his feet). Her own book remained open and untouched on her lap, spell logistics she had still to master and which she had no patience to learn — the mana rolled beneath her skin, an attempt to escape and bring ice-cold darkness. Siri reached for Theo with a comfortable, confident ease (she was not her and he not him, but they were). In each gesture there was always the unspoken ‘help, stay, listen, us’. “It is moving still.” The half-cryptic phrases she uttered at times, which actually seemed less frequent under his constant company, “Time, I mean, things — it is something changing.” “Aye,” Theo said simply. “A certain thing, that.” He looked up briefly consider to the windows and the world outside the study, where the summer sun dipped further and further in the sky, heralding the bruising reds of evening that began to bleed, slowly and steady, across the horizon. Dinner would need be considered soon, he realized, but there was time yet to linger, to throw off the shackles of the day and the heavy weight of duty--his own book regarded law, as befitted a Knight of the Peace. Dry material, but he had long grown accustomed to the reading, and it was necessary, he told himself, to keep up with. But it did not serve now to keep his attention. With his mind swerving from one distraction to the next, soon enough his gaze moved over to Siri. Brow furrowed slightly (a familiar expression), he regarded her. “You hungry?” Siri wished she could make him see through her eyes, to see the unwavering patterns that surrounded them and that whispered the slight fluctuations that would echo out (ripples, ripples, further and further). She slinked towards him, slithering like a snake, fingers icy cold as she slipped over his own and closed the book. “Yes.” Because there were no polite boundaries here, no quiet whispers of ‘no, not at all’ or ‘if you are’. Her thumbs moved, resting on the beating pulse on his wrists (counting down the time — one, two, three, four (arms) —) and pressed slightly. Fire beneath and ice in her own; Siri felt the comfortable anchor then and didn’t let go. The blue-tongued flames of the stove rose and spit greedily against the edges of the copper pot as Theo adjusted them once again, the water finally coming up to a full boil. He had gone to work on meal preparation as he was accustomed, whether it was the mage at his side, lingering not far away from his sight, should he turn his head and look, or any other. Knife met surface of the cutting board in a succession of resounding blows, echoing sharp across the kitchen, utensils smacked against pots and pans, food was seared and sliced and moved from space to another. The kitchen was, to some, the heart of the home, a place full of warmth and activity, a sanctuary that brought with it a unique manner of solace. This particular room seemed no different as Theo went about making their dinner for himself. The servants of the Finch estate were long accustomed to his unusual habits, and none could be seen lingering around at the moment, busying themselves, perhaps, in other rooms with other tasks. Theo loomed over the stove and its collections of pots and pans, his stirring spoon held aloft and he turned for a moment to inspect Siri and her movements. “Hand me the bowl there,” he asked, gesturing with the spoon to the assortment of foods and dishes on the other side of the room. Accustomed to the ways of the nobility, Siri had spent little time in the kitchen (there were vague recollections of the kitchen at Cassul keep, distant and dusty in her memory). She leaned her body against his throughout different intervals, curiously watching him dominate the kitchen with practiced hands. Curiosity urged her to touch his hands again, examine them closely and determine what it was that made his digits so skilfully adjusted to cooking. She was smiling at him again, centred in the moment as she followed the instructions and passed him the bowl — the stretch of room between them unsettled her briefly and then it was gone as the distance was breached again (a conscious choice Siri made, not forced upon by priests, monsters or men). Passing him the bowl, she took the chance to lean against him once more (blazing fire swallowing her whole — it was a relief). “I like watching you do this.” It was oddly calming, attention focused on him like a lifeline. It was how she passed her days in his company, following his lead as if she were connected by a binding string. “Could always learn it,” he suggested plainly, taking the bowl in his free hand, a grumble low in his throat formed as thanks. Theo, however, knew how fruitless the suggestion might be--certainly his brother Evander had never taken to the idea of toiling away over a hot stove either, leaving the base work to the servants as was expected. But it did not mean that he didn’t persistently pester his older brother about the matter, and it did not stop him from mentioning it here. The spoon vanished into the pot as he stirred and mixed and inspected progress on the impromptu design of their soon-to-be evening meal. Siri’s touch and her weight against him made little difference--Theo was always attempting to learn and grow accustomed to her whims and behavior. Not that he understood it, or so he thought to himself, but he strove for it, and found ways to bridge the gap. This recent change in location strengthened the ways of overcoming that stretch; from the near hysterical shaking on the first day, where she spoke in symbols of past, present and future, to the relaxed posture held now. There was coherence in most of sentences from which the young woman (who she could have been) shone through. Brief glimpses, false hopes — madness could not be reversed, only advanced. “Yes,” The skill could be learnt, “but I like watching you.” And Siri did, she liked following his shadow and the way magic extended from his fingers. She liked that her slender frame allowed her to hide against him and that when she grabbed onto him she had to stretch out to encircle his waist (a chain, a bind pulling him to her and away from that fire). “Hm,” he said with a grunt. Theo was not practiced in being gentle or affectionate (no matter all of what his tenure as a mentor had taught him), but he bore the attention with acceptance and something nearly akin to patience, dutifully going about his ministrations at the stove just as he had before. It was his stubborn, fiery spirit which won out in the end, as in so many other things. Along the neatly aligned desks of the EKP offices, Siri navigated them in twists and turns, ignoring the wide corridor between rows(everyone stepped on the same path but she did not, seeking out the Berserker that had become — something that had no clear definition in her head yet). Wood and paper, sometimes it smelled like leather and ink (feathers, but no birds, only endless chains that would not break). And she turned, touching a stranger on the back briefly, using the contact to reorient herself and plunge ahead. He was here, among the the other officers, Siri just had to wait and allow the world to tilt in the right direction. She could find him; as long as he remained in this city she would always find him. Now the difference was that she was actively looked for Theo rather than allowing it to fall in Fate’s hand. If her mind settled, the details of their meetings prior to this would come: fragmented and frail, but solid enough. And along this newfound companionship she found herself thinking less of the Madness. Fingers closed around her upper arm, whirling her towards a stranger whose narrowed eyes gave away his suspicion. “Have I not seen you here before?” “Yes?” A head tilt, a beat, withdrawing her arm carefully from the stranger’s grip. “Sir Finch.” The name waved around as an explanation, a direction, an excuse (she was not lost, she didn’t need help). It must have been enough (or perhaps her ever growing presence in this place was the reason) and the EKP officer was gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “That way.” But I’m not lost. (Certain: one, two, three, four — she could count the arms beneath the armoured beast she dreamt of now). Siri shook her head, and followed (not the pointed direction, because that was wrong but her own path crisscrossing until the right place was found). Theo was found sitting at his desk, a fixed point at the end of her journey, gazing absently at a short stack of papers. He looked up, his surprise only momentary (recollections of the woman in handcuffs hadn’t fully been forgotten). Setting his paperwork aside, the Knight of the Peace stood, tall and appraising, his sombre expression greeting Siri as she approached. “Going on rounds soon,” he said, a simple statement of fact. Ragnarok leaned against the side of the desk, the sword ready for him to take up. Siri admired the blade, knowing that it was far too heavy for her to even pick up; her fingers rose tentatively in that direction but stopped, instead returning to her side. “I will go with you, if you do not mind the company. I must check on the Palings.” Theo thought it over for a minute, readying the rest of his gear and strapping the greatsword to its place at his back, its weight and burden familiar. “Aye,” he said, giving Siri a nod. “Weather’s going to turn.” After a brief exchange of words, the berserker lead the way out of the guildhall and into the busy city streets. Theo, large and intimidating as he was, cut a steady path through the throng of passing citizens and a clear way for Siri to follow. Humidity hung heavy in the air, promising rain and adverse weather, the wind rising up as the two neared the edge of the city. He looked up briefly, noted the violent churning of the clouds above and dutifully kept moving. Her fingers would grasp his cloak(like brittle chains that had not yet adjusted to their new prisoner) now and again as they danced through the crowds and she shadowed his every step. Sometimes the bindings would change and her digits would grasp the edge of his glove, or the sheath of Ragnarok. Fleeting and brief, much like her lucidity despite the steady presence in her life. Most residents were already looking to pack their stalls or at least get out of the incoming rain; Siri just wanted to get to the Paling before it began to pour(water made the steps slippery, hard to navigate if your footing wasn’t perfectly steady). She took the lead as the stairs narrowed and led out to the tower where the Paling rested. Covered in light and emitting a warm glow, Siri understood its inner pathways, how to reach inside and steady it. How to twist its magic to her will with ease (at least, this made perfect sense to her). Before she could get started, rain interrupted them &mdash carrying with it the scent of salt from the sea, heavy and sticky in a dangerously suffocating-like manner. Theo pulled up the hood of his cloak in a futile attempt to stay dry. The rain battered down in heavy sheets, heralded by the peal of thunder in the distance, an ominous web of lightning shattering down against the nearby sea. No matter the force of the rain and the wind (his thoughts pulled to old memories, a battle in the streets), Theo kept his feet firmly planted and positioned himself as a shield for Siri against the torrent of weather, his cloak snapping against the wind like a tattered sail. “Don’t dally,” he growled, his voice drowned by the sounds of rain pounding against the stones. The instructions echoed but remained and Siri gave an imperceptible nod lost against cloth and storm. Her small hands pressed against the crystal as she poured mana inside, carefully storing(building a wall for Gods, a horse dragging each stone — there was only one god here, and a dome made of light). Between Theo and the Paling Siri felt so small(dally. do. not) And if she let it fall(dally) — there was only one eye to be given in exchange, the periphery forever changed. It rose upwards, relighting the shield that covered the city as she dropped her hands feeling a wave of exhaustion, mana depleted. Siri turned her face upwards, smiling beneath tousled damp strands. “Don’t dally.” Mouthing the words, knowing her voice would be lost in the wind(his was heavy, hers anything but). This was a landscape he had grown familiar with, a foreign terrain in his own dreams. The desert was friend to none and gave no comfort to those who marched across its vast, rolling expanse, the wandering army spread out like ants--nothing more than insects as the sun beat down relentless above. No mercy here and none shown, they themselves had come to conquer. Already were their blades stained with blood, as the sand was tainted with theirs, the dying left behind as the rest were commanded to continue forward. Up at the fore he marched, the weight of a blade heavy on his back--but this was a different sword, a sword of kings, and he was not himself. Theo was forgotten, and there was only a thirst for power. A desire which moved men throughout time, which bound them all in chains to fate and to a will not their own. (There was a breath that rattled her chest, expanding ribs to swallow fire and sand). Not for one but three. (This unwelcomed guest that was currently lodged deep inside). Not the second but the third. (Where blood curled up her dress(he had not liked her in red)). Just the third. Clinic white faces march past her; they are inconsequential, withering to dust with each step they take unable to avoid their fate and the stain her further(not hot but ice and darkness— blood thick like mud). Not all pass right by her; the armour and sword (one, two, three, four — Siri remembers those arms). She reaches to grasp — He stopped in his tracks, and for a moment the whole word shivered. Theo felt the tug against his cloak, weathered and beaten and bloodied cloth hanging limp from his shoulders, a banner of an ancient king, and he turned back to look. His skin was burnt, peeled, beaten by the sun (it hung above them both, eternal and dominant), his eyes burning with the want for battle. His gaze moved across her the force and pull grew greater, demanding his attention, his focus, for what and whom he did not understand. “We must leave,” he said in ancient tongue, his lips dry and cracked, his voice hoarse from giving commands. So she rose on tip toes to blow cool air against his skin in an attempt to relieve the fractures she heard (her chest expanded — there were still three, it burned ice cold). “Do not fight longer, Fallen King. They will come for you.” Chain and drag him down, setting him to guard the entrance to a lost city inside a dream-like nightmare(no trees here to whisper but the sand hummed, greedily swallowing the blood). “You defied Gods.” Her tone is neither reproachful nor judgemental, just anxious, she is in the end, a mad girl but here is her anchor. “We must leave, yes, but not there.” That road was littered with corpses, rotten and bloated — endlessly swirling into darkness. Siri didn’t look back into the abyss, but it always waited patiently for her. “Where?” He asked her plain, and he was no longer drifting along the tides of time, hooked and pulled instead by a different chain, a stray wolf leashed. Theo felt himself come together in shards and fragments. His head was bowed to look upon her, ignoring now the road that was, a path of cobbled from blood and bleached bones. Siri didn’t know the name, but she knew that once her feet found direction they would inevitably end up where they were meant to be, regardless of the path they took. As long as they didn’t go down the abyss, there would be three and not just two, because one could break two. “I’ll lead.” With the certainty of a prophet who knew what was and would be, she offered her hand, palm up. (one, two, three, four) to wield those blades. “We will go, Theodore Finch. You and I and that other.” He took her hand in his own and followed. “Aye.” (Above, the sun remained watchful and silent.) The evening painted a familiar scene. After his duties for the day had been completed, Theo had followed a familiar path to one of his usual haunts, a tavern that had survived and thrived regardless of the city’s turmoil. The berserker shoved his way through the dinner crowds, his strides long and purposeful toward the bar counter. An empty seat awaited, as if it was meant for him, as if it had been waiting for him to take his place amongst the rest, and so he sat himself down without appraising the faces of those around him, bound and blind to his own destiny. He waved a hand to summon the bartender and turned his head, and it was only then when Theo spotted her. “Evening,” he said in a grumble (his tone not entirely unkind). (His voice is a proverbial Pavlovian bell, causing Siri to lift her head and turn her attention from — dream nightmare now). She is not sure where exactly they are in that moment, but Theo is there and that is enough for the mage; all questions quiet in the back of her mind. “Hello, Den-Dweller. Was your day a good one?” her fingers slide the small shot glass close to her chest, nails on a chalkboard as the glass slides across the bar. Drinking is not a habit, she may sip daintily at a pint of ale but stronger liquors were reserved for special moments. Nobody needed a drunk mad girl screaming in agony as if she were being pulled apart from the inside(there were live wires tied to her joints). Electricity always had a raw feel as it flowed for her, fire and ice burned but electricity tore open leaving one wounded and bleeding. There is no companionable pat on the shoulder tonight(sometimes he burns too bright for her to keep up— she is afraid of being left behind). Another broken little doll for priests and knights and people to tinker with, because she knows how does she knows does not matter. The result is always the same: truth and everyone wants truth except their own. And as yarn unravels so does she, each little truth pulling, pulling. Her train of thought is wondering, she rewinds it back to the now. Theo’s response is ground out slowly, a rumble deep in the chest--there was unrest inside him that evening, a fire stoked and stirring restlessly. He sat with palms heavy against the counter, his weight resting wearily against scratched wooden frame. “Day as any other,” he supposed, wondering silently to himself if this was true. Thornton had left the guild and the city recently enough, and that particular absence rippled around his professional life, a wave of change that he found himself floundering against. (Loss--the word snapped and hissed at the back of his mind, felt but unspoken aloud.) But the tide of change was ever-constant, uncaring for his plight or any other’s. And so Theo had only to examine his own position, tenuous as it was. Weighed down by guilt and fear (a multitude of dark possibilities, of a fate long-cursed), he felt himself sinking slowly. “And you?” A tankard of ale was set before him, and Theo reached for it thankfully. Hers is pushed away as he takes his, mirroring the gesture and lifting a hand to indicate she needed another one(she soaked up his weight, tittering precariously on the edge with him). The bartender being nearby refilled it without another word, the strange woman was becoming — more or less — a fixed point within this city. “It feels like live wires, connecting to your body — it is loud today. Something changed, people are thinking —” Stop. “— you’re mostly never loud, even when you’re thinking very hard. Everything turning inside your head, always muffled by — something—” Stop. “— sorry, too much talking aren’t I? Sorry.” Her talk washed over him, as it always did, and Theo reached out for something solid to grasp hold of. He took a long drink from his tankard, his throat parched from a long day of patrols and other duties, and allowed the alcohol to settle him. “Worried?” He reached up and scratched at the back of his neck. “Everyone ought be,” he said in a low, considerate rumble, “and aye, even myself.” The admission was left half-finished, dangling in the heavy tavern air as he took another long drink. After a time, memories of their first encounter began to settle on his skin like dew. It had been a few months at least, when she had struggled to keep something cohesive inside herself, speaking as clearly as possible for fear of being marked as different(but it was a fate that could not be escaped, her accent revealed her and her words betrayed her). Exposed like flayed skin(if she stiched her lips together with a golden thread?). “Yes, a little drink to soothe the soul and conscience.” Siri considered her next words, trying to string them together, and finally opted to follow Theo’s direct simplicity. “You worry me.” He gave a snort, settling in with the mug between both hands, leaning forward on the counter with his head bowed--as if prepared for a confessional. The past year had ground him down, worn apart his own confidence, in himself and in the world (a brutal, merciless adversary). Perhaps he ought to have worked to alleviate her worry, but something like a thread between them, invisible and unseen but unquestionably strong, kept him from the action. “Aye,” he said, giving her a sideways glance. “What think you then?” When it came to truth it tended to be razor sharp, the glint of the blade poised over the festering wounds and salt followed after(when you were alone, when you could reminisced on the words exchanged before). Plucking the string she hears always two; a dusty snort of more beast than man. Residual phantoms in the tower, the other beasts with human masks wondering around and the puzzle pieces that were curled up with dampness, no longer fitting. “I don’t think you’re happy.” But when had happiness ever been a real possibility for people like them? There were brief periods of contentment. On her better days, Siri dared to think there could be more than contentment one day. “Puzzle pieces that no longer fit, even if you shove them in the place they fit before.” There was a truth in her words that bit into him, terrible-toothed. Theo raised a hand, to brush it away perhaps, to rub the weariness from his own eyes. Could he see clarity here, amidst the dim light of tavern, was there a path truly meant for him as well? (Had Thornton felt this way before he had left? Did he find something more, somewhere out there?) “Don’t belong,” he said, the words escaping uncertain--but then, was this not his reality? Fooling himself all along, Theo had sought normalcy, a life that escaped his grasp when the glyph burned itself across his skin. “Not here, not anymore.” The admittance, saying the words aloud, sunk in more painfully than any battle-given wound. What would his life have been without the Other? Siri’s eyes focused on his forearm for a brief moment then back to his face (he would have been a worthy second son and lived up to the expectation of his second name he would have risen above others as an EKP officer he would have had a family and a life and he would have been happynormal). The Other would never leave, lodged inside as It was and breathed with his breath and wore Theo’s skin like a mask. “That is not a bad thing.” Theo straightened in his chair. Comfort stung as well, if only in a different manner. “And what of you, aye?” He didn’t look at her, or could not. Digging through his pockets for more gil, he ordered another drink (an empty, restless gesture, an artifice) and let his mind wander down dark and dismal trails. And what then, if Siri was right? Ought he simply leave the city and his responsibilities behind (could he)? Do you belong here, and if not, where? She shifted her body, her back against the bar (divots against the woodsandstone). The question had an answer, a quiet hum of familiarity beneath the fire. Siri didn’t look at him, chose not to. Dropping her head slightly, she wished for anything to take her mind off the answer(perhaps she was slightly self-conscious of the dependency she was prone to develop). In her teen years she had belonged with Rictor Cassul and Caspar Vaux, shielded between them from the rest of the world. That had not been true for years and she was frail, easily broken by the weight of reality and nightmares and things with no names. “I belong with you.” There was a timidity in her voice, vulnerability in speaking a truth about herself. The confession settled between the pair--bound them together. Theo felt his wariness bristle at the thought, of anyone being shackled to his fate (whatever it might now be). But something else stirred within him as well, and it was this that kept him there and rooted to her side. The berserker raised his tankard and his words (not a promise but an oath) were drowned in the noise of the tavern. |