percιval oғ voх мacнιna (pepperbox) wrote in jurassiccitylog, @ 2016-09-01 00:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | percy de rolo, vex'ahlia |
who: Percival Frederickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III and Lady Vex'ahlia, Baroness of the Third House of Whitestone and Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt Percy and Vex.
what: They both have a lot on their minds and need someone to talk to.
where: Their apartment.
when: Late at night.
warning: Some dark imagery, general negative mental states.
status: In progress.
Percy's dreams were rarely peaceful. They hadn't been since that first dream of smoke and shadow and the promise of vengeance. Since before that, if he was honest. The hazy two years between his family's slaughter and his torture, and Orthax approaching him, had been rife with nightmares. That much, at least, he remembered, though he hardly considered that a positive thing. And now there was so much, and none of it particularly lent itself to restful sleep. They had been moving so fast, pushing forward and fighting and never truly taking a break, that he simply hadn't had to think too hard on everything that was happening. Here, in this place, everything slowed down. And he had been hit at once with so much that he hadn't had the time to process before. The Feywild, for all that it had been beautiful, had torn at some very old wounds. The Gilded Run particularly. Though he had done his best not to trouble the others at the time, it had been all he could do not to give in to panic at finding himself once again drowning. He really didn't remember much of the first years after his family had been torn asunder, but he remembered drowning, struggling against the river after his escape and finding himself utterly helpless. He still couldn't really say how he had survived that. His panic in the Raven Queen's temple had been far less about being trapped in a pool of blood than it had been about being submerged in liquid and unable to find the way out. He wished he could say he'd handled being blinded with as much composure, but he hadn't. That was something else entirely, something of dark dreams and old fears. Of Ripley's hands on him and not being able to see what was coming next. Of Orthax's smoke clouding things until all he could see was darkness. Of not being enough and losing this strange and lovely found family that he wanted so badly to protect. Coming back to dragons and the threat of losing Whitestone (again) and Cassandra (again) and knowing it would be his fault if he was wrong and Vorugal attacked hadn't helped. Being dragged into the mess of Draconia and finding Tiberius, lost to them in such a permanent way, had been even harder. Being the one to find Tiberius, having to carry that weight, that was that inch too far. He knew without a shred of doubt that, had Tooma told him that none of the bodies could be moved, he would have carried that knowledge on his own until Vorugal was dealt with. It was simply another burden to shoulder in order to keep his family safe. But right now, in a place without his responsibilities and the distraction of looming threats, the burdens felt far too heavy. His dreams had been full of smoke and black powder and the knowledge of his own weakness. That he would never be the man he he hoped he could be. That he would lose everyone he loved. Memories of Cassandra, arrows in her chest and blood staining the snowy ground, blended too easily with the terrifying thought of Vorugal bringing its frigid doom to Whitestone. His sister, his friends, on spikes of ice. Vex falling in the temple (his fault, that would always be his fault and he could never make amends), shifted into Vex, changed into something strange and wrong, something between person and plant and darkness, lost to Saundor. Vax losing himself to his patron, to a path he had never wanted to follow, because Percy had been stupid and reckless. Falling to Sylas. Falling at the hands of the Rakshasa, another piece of family lost to him within the walls of Whitestone. Grog dying from that blasted sword. Pike dying and nobody able to bring her back. Every single one of them dying one by one. Not by outside evils, but by his gun, as the shadows surrounded him and he felt himself slipping away. And all throughout, Ripley's hands and her tools. On him. In him. Her voice in his ear. Her voice. His family's screams. And Orthax. He didn't scream. He never woke up screaming, and he was grateful for small mercies. But his heart was racing and he could hardly breathe past the taste of smoke and gunpowder and the sharp iron tang of blood on his tongue and in the back of his throat. His vision took a long moment to clear and he knew if he could see his eyes would be black, smoke and shadow drifting off of him like so many other nights. He took a shaky, stilted breath, doing his best to calm the tremors in his hands. They weren't normally this bad, but the nightmares always made it worse. Knowing sleep was a lost cause, he slipped out of bed and moved toward the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea. His hands still shook, cups and utensils rattling as he worked. He clenched his fist and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe until the worst of the shaking subsided. It was then he heard footsteps behind him. He wouldn't have, not if she hadn't wanted him to, and he looked over his shoulder to acknowledge her presence. "You couldn't sleep either?" |