InsaneJournal

RP:
Who: Ichabod, dementor effects, and who knows.
Where: Beginning in his room, moving to the lobby and... wherever
What: The man has some very dark memories, and they haunt him enough without the help of dementors
When: Friday evening (Yep, late to the party)
Warnings: Movie plot references? None.
Status: Complete


Since Swan had shown him how to use the messaging device, Ichabod had retired to his room for the most part to learn to use it, to become more comfortable in light of what she had taught him about it. It was still an amazing thing, still a marvel of a technology his time had not even dreamed of, yet as time progressed he found himself with less and less interest in it. Nightmares had come soon after, and nothing he read on the instrument had cheered him or given him hope.

While in the Hollow dreams of his childhood- his mother- had returned unbidden, bringing a sense of despair and a blow to his rationality, yet Katrina had been there to help shore his courage and his will to continue. Terrible despair had followed when he thought she had been the guilty party; he had come to care for her- no, more than that. He mourned for the life he could not have, and contrary to his strong desire to see all stand equally before the law, he did away with the evidence to leave her to the life he thought she had wrought for herself.

Horrible was the guilt he felt when he realized how wrong he was, and how he had left her to what could have been a fearful fate.

This was worse than all of that.

He knew that it was the influence of those creatures, it was written in the messages that people had posted and he had read. What a loathsome entity, a nightmarish creature to have the power to do such things as to drive people to the deepest levels of despair? The glass window had what appeared to be an icy sheen on it, and it felt so incredibly cold near them that he could not bear it. The cause had to be those things, it had not seemed to look like winter when last he looked through the glass. He saw nothing, yet he knew they were there, waiting.

The rational man within him railed against this, yet it was a losing battle in the face of the strength of emotion he felt and the horrors he relived in his dream. All those deaths, the terrible events which unfolded in the church that night- and the forest thereafter. His parents, and his mother in that terrible room, that device- that hideous instrument, too terrifying to be used in a just society based on the rule of law; yet superstition held sway still, and so it was. People died for it; that was why he fought so very hard against it, yet nothing had changed. In his despair he began to realize that it was all a hopeless folly, that people were not logical by nature and his dream of just means could never be. No, he was wasting his time, years of his life spent in the fruitless pursuit of a goal too great for the naturally vile nature of mankind....

He realized then that these thoughts were not truth- not his truth anyway; it was what he was left with- what they offered in exchange for the happiness they had stolen. He could not let himself believe that he would never see Katrina or young Masbath again, that the life they were beginning to forge was over just that quickly, never to be completed. There could be no doubting that one day his fight would win out, and reason would win the day; that superstition could be relegated to the annals of history.

With a glance back to the window he rose and swept the messaging device from the table to slip it into his pocket. He could not remain so close to them, He could not allow himself to simply waste away with despair, to surrender to the sadness; he wanted to bury himself beneath the linens and leave the world to its own, but there had to be more. There had to be something, and though he could not see it right now, there had to be hope. These people had managed to go on, he could too.

With a deep breath he let himself out of his room and closed the door; it seemed as though it felt marginally better, but not nearly enough. Slow steps carried him to the stairwell, and he made his way to the lobby, expecting to find others- no, hoping against hope to find others. With news of so many witches and sorcerers in this place he had taken to avoiding them, but no more. With a touch to the book hat still rested in the pocket of his coat he walked, listening for the others. If he could occupy his mind with that, he could block out the memories... maybe.