garregmach | (no subject)

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A mist settles in over the monastery.

Is it morning? Night? Who can say? Today, the day feels endless. The sun is nowhere to be seen — or had it been at all? Instead, a curious green glow engulfs Garreg Mach, like an eternal twilight settling in. Time seems to be paused almost, though the wildlife in and around the area continues to act as though nothing is wrong. As though this is perfectly normal. As though it is natural for the skies to be dark, with not a single star in sight, and for the sun to be forgotten in the mist that lingers. The paths are at least lit by small orbs of light, fireflies flitting about.

However, should one come into contact with one of those fireflies, a memory of the past will be projected for all in the close vicinity to see. Joyous occasions, tragic events — they don't seem to discern one way or another. Perhaps it would be best to watch your step for now, though.

Of course, after lingering for about a day, the strange ambience will fade into what appears to be a normal night at Garreg Mach. It's as if nothing had happened at all. Did it? Or was it all simply a shared hallucination?

[ ● MEMSHARE POST. Coming into contact with the fireflies will share a memory of your character's with those around them. You can top-level with a memory to start out or have people tag you and determine it then, whatever. I don't make the rules (except I do and I say yolo). Have fun with it!
● Open posts like this one are flipping to a two week schedule instead of a weekly one.
● Because of the above, the last bit is there for people who'd maybe like to play out aftermath threads later on but don't want to wait for a new post or make a new one.
● Settings have been slightly updated. ]

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[ There's a tension in the air almost, and it isn't from the atmosphere, the strange green glowing fireflies flitting about. It's nearly imperceptible, but she can feel it all the same. Enough that she maintains a small distance, glancing over at him curiously. ]

Not too much. [ a beat. ] It feels kind of rude, you know?

[ To see the memories of others, of course. Not just his.

Though that seems equally rude, given his penchant for secrecy. ]

They're everywhere.

Kind of.

[ Claude nods. Still with the humor, his echoed quip tinged with amusement, amusement he doesn't feel it.

As intrusive as he can be, as curious as he is about the lives each iteration of his once-classmates lived in their divergent times, not like this. Not given a window directly into their head, prying into the private, pulled from their skulls and broadcast. ]

Hard to avoid, huh?

[ Dark enough that their glow makes them hard to miss, but if there were enough of them, being able to see them coming wouldn't be of much help. ]

I suppose we could hide away from each other, but that isn't a lasting solution. Has anyone tried killing them?

[ You know. He claps his hands, as though smashing an insect between his palms. ]

[ She could make some kind of remark about "hiding away from each other" or a well-placed observation on how the dead don't seem to stay dead here, but both are a bit too dark and dreary for her liking. Instead, Hilda gives Claude a Look, raising an eyebrow briefly, before she shakes her head. ]

Not that I've heard of, but there's a lot of them, you know? We don't even know where they're coming from.

[ Because they seemed to be coming from everywhere. Hilda lets out a soft sigh of frustration, blowing a few strands of hair away from her face. ]

Dimitri was wondering if maybe we could control what ended up getting shown.

[ Oh, he knows that look. And he suspects he could make a good guess as to what she might be thinking. She might not be the Hilda who stayed with him, the unexpected constant of the last few years (his last, her last, their last), but she looks just the same. Speaks as much with the arch of an eyebrow.

Still, he can play dumb with a look better than a pointed comment. Assisted by the subject and its promise of yet another puzzle. ]

Right. And with so many, trying to keep track of and follow one would be an exercise in tedium and frustration.

[ In this darkness, should it keep dim for long, so much for that. Claude touches hand to forehead, considering options. Or inventing them. All the while with a careful eye on the fireflies bobbing around them. ]

That's not a bad idea... did either of you try?

[ Given the risk involved, he would understand if they'd hesitated. He would like to try himself, experimenting with focus on a particular memory or a heightened emotion. But were he to try and fail, and the memory displayed was a more recent, bloody thing, well... best to test without company.

Not yet.

[ She shakes her head at that, glancing back over at the fireflies. They should test them, she knows, but that's not her style and he's not likely to do so any time soon — not while others are around, anyway. No Claude in his right mind would do so.

(which would imply that Claude is ever in his right mind, but. Details, details.)

A soft groan escapes her lips as she rolls a shoulder, reaching around to rub at the back of her neck. ]

Ugh. Where's Raphael when you need him? He'd go for it in an instant.

[ Hilda sighs, lowering her hand. ]

[ Well, that isn't surprising. Who would willingly subject themselves to that, to likelihood that rather than succeeding in choosing the memory, anything could be drawn out of the depths of their mind and put on display?

Very, very few. Maybe—

Hilda nails it and Claude grins. ]

He would, wouldn't he? If we asked, he'd be happy to help.

[ To a fault, if Claude remembers correctly, and he's sure he does. Not a bit self-conscious and completely open. Who else? ]

We might have been able to persuade Leonie, too.

[ Not deceive, as even he wouldn't compel such a personal violation to satisfy his own curiosity. Maybe if the stakes were higher in what might be learned. As for the rest, the other houses, he'd never known them well enough to be sure. Caspar had seemed a little like Raphael. Linhardt, for the the sake of knowledge? Maybe not anymore.

He'll just have to close himself up in a room to conduct his experiments. Later. Alone. ]

Oh, well. Where were you headed?

Me? I was . . .

[ She wasn't going anywhere in particular.

With the fireflies flitting about and generally making a nuisance of themselves, Hilda had mostly kept moving, trying to avoid them as best as she could. But she didn't do well with aimless wandering these days; she either needed a task to distract herself with or somewhere that she could just flop for hours on end. And the latter? Seemed like a fine way to invite the pests in.

Hilda rocks on her heels, considering that for a moment until a thought occurs to her. She perks up slightly, then gives Claude a suspicious look. ]

Hey, wait. Are you just trying to get me to tell you so you'll know exactly where you don't want to go?

[ Is she calling him out?

maybe. ]

[ Maybe he should have expected this. He doesn't, in no small part because that truly wasn't the motivation behind his question.

Not that his actual motivation was far from it.

Claude blinks, raising his hands palms forward, that defensive stay. ]

Whoa, that's quite an accusation!

[ One that might be generally well-founded, if not specifically now. ]

If it's such a secret, then by all means, keep it to yourself. I simply assumed you'd been passing through, rather than looking for me here.

[ He shrugs, dropping his hand, and only just avoiding the flitting spiral of a firefly. After a glance to confirm the space, he edges left. ]

I wouldn't keep you. That's all.

[ And he would then proceed to the bedroom he'd taken (not his own), to settle in for firefly theatre. That truly his intention in this instance. Generally, however... isn't it easier for both of them? It isn't as though he peeks around every corner for a glimpse of pink before advancing. But if she's often coordinating in the dining hall, he hasn't much reason to be there.

That, too, is all, except insofar as it isn't. It really, really isn't. ]

You're not keeping me.

[ She smiles back at that, almost playfully. It's good to see that despite the differences between the two of them, Hilda can still keep this Claude on his toes.

Then again, she's come to realize that none of them are really her Claude. But in a way, doesn't that make all of them "hers"?

Hilda taps at her cheek, eying him now. ]

And it's no "secret," either. If you really want to know, I don't know where I was heading off to. This whole firefly thing's really thrown everything into a state of disarray.

[ She groans at that, shifting her hand to rub at the back of her neck. ]

You know me, I always really want to know.

[ Always might be a stretch, but she'll understand that. She does know him, and she doesn't, both of which contribute to the problem.

And he does know her, and he doesn't, both of which, you get it. It isn't so bad to have aimless days, as they can provide a break for body and mind. A day like this doesn't quite count, foisted upon them and adding another impossible mystery to this place. Difficult to relax under these circumstances.

She's been working hard, he knows, in her way. So it's with real sympathy that he watches her rub at her neck, that he smiles. ]

Yeah, I can imagine. Hard to get anything done in this lighting, while dodging our new friends.

[ He could, maybe even should say, Well, I'm headed to my room, good luck with that or some more palatable version of that. But here's another part of the problem: once he's with her, he doesn't want to get away. To reintroduce that distance. Even if and when he should. ]

Well then... shall we figure it out together? I guess you'll know when we get there.

[ That takes her by surprise.

Hilda slowly lowers her hand, looking over at him. It takes a moment or two before a smile crosses her face and she nods once, firmly, assured. ]

Yeah. I'd like that.

[ And then, because things are starting to seem a bit too sincere for her tastes: ]

— It'd be nice to have someone else do the heavy lifting for once. You're all making me work.

[ It could be a real complaint, if one didn't know Hilda — any Hilda, really — all that well. But it's meant to cut through the tension, add a bit of humor into the mix, and keep things from dwelling too much in the darkness. He's not avoiding her, she's not thinking of a million different scenarios as to what happened to him in her head, and everyone is making her work and that's really what's terrible here.

It's not a perfect method, but she's trying. ]

I bet you'd have some idea when we get there too, maybe.

[ Maybe. ]

[ A moment or two. His mind fills the space swiftly, spinning and sinking, sinking and pacing. She could refuse. He isn't keeping her, she hadn't a destination in mind, but those two facts, whether separate or taken together, do not necessarily lead to continuing with him.

Whether or not he wants her to refuse, he should.

But she doesn't, and he shouldn't feel what he does. Really, he needs to get a better hold of his head. All this isn't like him, and he doesn't feel like blaming it on unwelcome memory. That would concede that it had gotten to him, had incited more than curiosity.

His relief, then, rushes a touch too forceful when she breezes through the atmosphere building between them. ]

Oh, are we? Tell me, what's the heaviest thing you've lifted?

[ Never mind the figure of speech. He's smiling, the sharp cut of it more knowing, more smirk. Lifting his arms behind his head, he begins walking, expecting her to fall into step beside him.

Weaving his arms to the side as he leans away from the flitting of a firefly. ]

Because I'm just that clever, huh? Maybe.

[ He's trying, too. ]

Wow, presumptuous much? There's a long list of heavy things I've lifted!

[ And yet, there's no real heat to any of that. It's more like a tennis player neatly lining up their swing before batting the ball back over the net, into the opponent's court. Back and forth with ease — that's how it's always been with her and Claude.

As long as she didn't think too hard, anyway. ]

But, yeah. Sure. Clever.

[ She heaves a theatric sigh, waving a hand.

And though she thinks she'll miss the firefly, that it's just out of her reach and therefore she's fine, it flits in at the last second, her fingertips grazing its wings.

A familiar scene (to her, anyway) plays out in front of her — the professor and Hilda, back at the monastery, back when it was whole, and the professor would call her out on her demeanor again and again. Wouldn't she want to be on the frontlines where she could help the most? Doesn't she want to fight, to protect her friends?

And though Hilda would reach out a hand and try to cajole her ("Two pretty ladies out on the town, right?"), the professor remained steadfast, stubborn, again and again reaching past her, for her. For her?

Weird.

Hilda purses her lips as she watches the scene play out. Did she still feel the same way? Things were different, of course; back then, they hadn't been at war and she'd been firmly ignoring any warning signs that one could be coming. And dying for someone else was . . .

It was more that she didn't want to think about it, so she wouldn't allow herself to.

As the scene finishes, she heaves a loud sigh, trying to play it off. ]

— ugh. I hate that we can't even squish them, you know?

Been keeping a list, have you? Sounds like a lot of effort.

[ As if she hasn't been keeping track of far more arduous things here. As if she hadn't — as if the Hilda he'd known hadn't —

But he can't just stand there and let the ball fly past him. Focus on the ball, on their routine that is and isn't their routine. On the ball, and not the is and isn't. Claude's sure he can manage it, he's been compartmentalizing all his life. He's sure of it, until her hand brushes into contact with the firefly and it starts.

Even if he was the type to try to look away and shut it out, the nature of the display makes it difficult. It's fascinating. He'd been able to appreciate it before and does so again. How does it work? The mechanics of this trick of light and sound, of memory. A completely unknown magic.

At first, his attention divides between puzzling over the how, and what unfolds. Hilda stands with Teach, younger and flippant. The same girl he'd known, but that girl as challenged by them. It might have been a fairly mundane conversation. Whether it stood out for Hilda, whether it had been memorable before the firefly dredged it out, Claude couldn't say.

He knows only this: he'll remember it.

I don't understand why anyone would want to risk their life for someone else. Why you die, no matter how you died, it's over. To me, it's more important to enjoy life. We only live once, after all.

As the girl in the memory began to speak it, Claude's attention focused, narrowing. The levity in the arch of his smile flattening, until his expression empties. The vacancy of it, the blank, that of shutters closing tight, his gaze fixed on Hilda as she had been, and fixed farther. Farther, farther, farther.

It's been fun, Claude. Sorry to go so soon.

The conversation in one memory has shifted to frivolity, to dinner on the town. In another, that which plays against the backdrop of his mind, it repeats.

He'd known, he'd long known that Hilda wasn't the type to die for anyone else. He'd thought he understood her well, well enough for that. To believe without doubt, without much of his typical accounting for other possibility, that she would retreat. He'd counted on it.

Now the heavy furrow of his brow, the tension in his jaw so rigid as to ache. Hilda sighs, speaks, but he's unable to wrench himself loose of it so soon. Bright spots in the black of his eyes, throat so tight as to strangle, the question that he'd tucked so carefully away beating itself against the cracked walls of his skull: why hadn't she retreated?

Why fall for Derdriu, for the Alliance, for her brother, for

no, not that. Not that. It can't have been for that.

After too much of a minute, her attempt breaks through. Claude forces himself to swallow, and to turn away as he blinks rapidly, measuring the breath he'd neglected to take. ]

Yeah.

[ Ugh, his voice would come out like that. As though he'd been gargling gravel. Another swallow, still blinking and he tries again. Threads a laugh through it, to carry him. ]

Ha, Teach seems tough. Did you ever get that dinner?

[ He can try to cover it all he likes, but it's something she notices.

How can she not, when she's spent so much time around him? Maybe not this particular Claude — or any of them here, come to think of it — but they're all so distinctly Claude. She'd know him anywhere. The furrow of his brow, the creasing near his eyes, the way his mouthline thins as his jaw sets — she knows that too, and what that very well means.

And yet, it's a delicate thing, with them. She wants to know, and she doesn't. She wants to pry, and she doesn't. Clashing wants, desires — she should be used to this by now.

In the end, it's simple enough, though: Claude is Claude. ]

Nope. And thanks for reminding me, by the way. Pretty rude of the Professor, don't you think?

[ He wouldn't know, and she knows that, but it's not the point. She won't comment on his demeanor, on the roughness in his voice.

Instead, she'll brush past it with ease, turning to hold out a hand as she pivots to face him with the simplest of movements. ]

Soooo someone has to make up for it.

[ Hilda is never one to take "no" for an answer, though that's mostly due to the fact that she refuses to put herself in a position where she could potentially hear it. And yet, it's impossible with Claude — particularly this Claude. She can mostly gauge him, get a feel for what he'd roll with, but sometimes it's a roll of the dice, and one she's not keen on taking.

This time, though. This time, she feels she should. ]

Ha, I guess I figured out where I was going, huh?

[ Pull himself along the thread. Tug it through the eye of a needle and sew his lips into the right shape, so that the tremor of a laugh becomes a smile. Like stitches, to hold the shape until it sets. Smile like a scar.

Which, really, is too morbid for him. Melodramatic.

About as melodramatic as thinking, as he turns back, looks back, looks at Hilda who is and isn't his Hilda, who pretends not to notice his brief severity and holds out her hand, who isn't crumpled and broken in the spreading pool of her own blood — as thinking, it doesn't make sense to feel haunted. Not really.

Not when he's the ghost.

An outright groanworthy sentiment, one that can have no foothold in him, and one without any sense in a place like this. They might as well all be ghosts. None of them belong here.

So Claude looks at her hand, recovering quick. Slowly for him, perhaps, in that he'd not bounced back immediately. But he raises his eyebrows at the insinuation, mouth pulling past the thread to curve lopsided and sharp into his cheek. ]

Hey now, why am I responsible for Teach's bad behavior?

[ To his mind, it should be Edelgard. To hers, the Claude that Teach had chosen. Dimitri, too, would be appropriate.

Nothing to do with him.

Nothing, except her hand and the simple hold of her eyes. ]

Besides, if you've figured it out, you don't need me.

[ But.

Her hand, her eyes, and if he was a ghost (again, stupid), what else to do but haunt? Claude shakes his head, glances skyward, and reaches for her hand. ]

Buuut, I did say when we get there. Just, not on Teach's behalf.

[ She wasn't going to take "no" for an answer, but it's still warming to her — how he takes her hand, how he doesn't refuse.

Well, except for one small part. ]

Oh, please. It's not on the professor's behalf! It's more . . . on the behalf of anyone I'd want to share a meal with.

[ Including him. Not the blanket term of "Claude" — him.

She gives his hand a playful squeeze before tugging him along, dipping her head to avoid another firefly. ]

Just be careful of these little guys flitting about though, okay?

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