Louis Donovan (strikethose) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-03-01 20:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | !dc comics, *log, louis donovan, sam alexander |
[log: louis d/sam a]
Who: Louis and Sam
What: A chat in the basement.
Where: Shadowcrest, DC door.
When: Today.
Warnings/Rating: TBD.
Louis' conversation with Sam had been nothing substantial, but perhaps that was to be expected. He felt very little, now.
It was soothing to return to old worries. How was Neil faring, who Sam thought was in danger of returning to bad old habits? How was he doing after shooting a man at point blank range in the guise of someone he cared for? In typical Donovan fashion they hadn't spoken about it at all, but that conversation was surely coming. Just now, it seemed impossible to string the words together. It was almost impossible to ask Neil how he felt about killing a man, when his own heart was seized with a neverending drumbeat need for death.
This requirement was undeniable, but its targets were not uncontrollable. Even in his strange fugue state, he had apparently chosen people that were dictated by his masters, or, when he had a modicum more control, people he came across who seemed worthy of death. On his own, he would have pursued such individuals only through the force of law. But now there was a dry tongue under the earth and hidden eyes that turned toward blood.
So he was not worried about being a danger to Neil or to his sister. The relationship between the vessel and the deity was, as he understood it, symbiotic to a degree, mutual, as much as it could be when it was made against his will. He did what it demanded, and it gave him power in return. This power did not come at the cost of hurting people that he loved.
It couldn't be said that the cult had perverted the intentions of the thing underneath, but they had made it something more directed than it was ever meant to be, something more human than godlike by the power of their own intentions. Now they were all dead, which showed how well imposing one's will on the powers one worshiped went.
All these delightful facts added up to very little at all when it came to how Louis actually felt. He had showered and been provided with clean clothes, and so didn't have to smell the dust of the carnival, or the imagined copper of blood on his shoes. But he did still picture it, the back of his sister's head exploding under a bullet. He thought about it. He thought about it still, and the sick drum of need in his belly hammered on in tandem, disgusting him.
As for Joey, he hadn't thought of him. He wouldn't. He couldn't.
When Sam arrived, he watched her and Neil say their paltry hellos, watched Neil go directly up the stairs, and he wondered. Was this purely Micah, or was there something else?
He was sitting on an old Victorian settee, red velvet, likely as old as the house itself, his legs tucked beneath him, bent neatly and enhancing his long, nimble figure. If anything, he seemed dull, quiet, acquiescent, watching Sam as she sat down next to him. His eyes were dry. Only the pumping of death continued on, and a flicker of worry for Neil as he clumped up the stairs.
"You didn't have to visit," he said. She had so much recovery to do herself, and the last thing she needed was to be here in this basement.
If appearances were anything to go by, he seemed almost normal. The medal hung around his neck, its symbols indistinguishable from years of rust and decay. His feet were bare, and he looked tired, but nowhere near the level of constant exhaustion that had been the norm for the last year. If it weren't for the sigils hemming him in to his side of the broad basement chamber, and his long look, all might have seemed to have gone back to normal again. "But I'm glad to see you." Genuine. He'd missed his sister.