ＳＯＴＨＩＳ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
starfelled) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
garregmach2019-10-19 02:12 pm
starfelled) wrote in garregmach2019-10-19 02:12 pm
(no subject)
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. ]
no subject
It is not hard to guess that this is no area in Fodlan. The colors, the language, the peoples... all of it misplaced from what he has come to know. And yet, for a place beyond Fodlan's borders... is it not very much the same? A busy street with the commonfolk plying their trades, families at work to purchase and spend as needed. Soldiers to safeguard the streets and children...
Children...
His eyes lock to the child, seeing in him the familiarity of someone he has watched for nigh a decade. It is in the wild of his hair, the crook of his smile- wider- and the flash of interest in his eyes- brighter- as he spots a tome that grabs his attention.
Ah. It takes a moment, for the unfamiliarity of time and appearance are worthy distractions, but only just before Lorenz is able to say with no small amount of embarrassing certainty that this child is Claude. But goodness did I lack for hobbies, he thinks a bit sheepishly as he glances about the fog, certain by now what has happened for he too has suffered a similar fate. After a moment, the passing glow of the fireflies gives way to the outline of a man obscured in the shifting veil of the mist. And- again- it is not hard to place the posture. The stance in which his feet are set, the broadness of his shoulders and the movement of a cape that catches sunlight on a brilliant day in a rich golden- but goddess, Lorenz, you really must stop.
And he clears his throat, fully intending to call out to the other in an effort to prevent the memory from carrying any further. Intrigued as he is, it is not in his nature to pry into another's secrets. It is honesty he desires as much as the truth and this is by no means any way to obtain it. Only, before he can call out, the scene changes.
In a second cheer turns to confusion and madness, a scuffle- what sort of wretch a man would harm a child?- and then...
Oh.
It is no surprise that attempts should have been made. Even from this short glimpse it was easy to tell Claude was from a family of no small amount of wealth. The state of his clothes, dusted and ruffled as they were, spoke of quality and money. To face danger simply for one's birth is... not unexpected. But for the reaction to the attempt... the callous nature of someone who could only be a mother to the rejection of a healer...
He runs through the motions- shock, disbelief, disgust... then something unexpected. Anger. True anger. Not the contempt of someone failing their duty, not the scorn of someone who has failed in responsibility... but anger. Blinding and white hot, simmering through the veins so heated as to boil. Anger for a friend wronged.]
Claude. [He announces himself, moving forward, more force to his step than needed, more purpose to his stride than appropriate. There is frustration welled within him and it lacks an out.]
no subject
Foolish, to say the least, to have allowed it to occupy so much of his attention while exposing what it does. To have been less attuned to the dark, the trailing of the mist. After all, in addition another set of eyes seeing too much, more than nosy fireflies might have arrived with this dark.
Claude might have preferred that danger, that unknown. Another set of eyes proves more alarming, especially when they belong to this man. A man known and unknown, and certainly one of the very last Claude would have chosen, if forced, to see that memory.
He hasn't yet heard or encountered any other Gloucester, and so assumes the one who speak his name and approaches to be the same he's spoken to now and again during their imprisonment, largely to compare notes. Claude hadn't yet gotten full-used to the manner with which this Lorenz addressed him, which makes this, strangely, more comfortable.
The heaviness of his step, the edge with which he addressed him. Lorenz is angry, Claude's sure of it, and he can understand only one explanation for it. And once I expose you for the fraud you are—
Well, it's been awhile, but given the nature of his last communication with the Lorenz of his time, Claude's able to turn without the grimace the he feels. Without tension tightening his features. He cannot regulate his eyes so well as to keep wariness from them, but he's practiced in his smile.
Bracing himself, he nonetheless raises his hand, a partial wave of greeting turning into caution. All but his index finger bending, a finger that he wags. ]
Ah-ah, Lorenz. I'm not your Claude.
[ That turn of phrase probably shouldn't amuse him in quite the way that it does. Meanwhile— maybe he should shave his head. Ha.
Not that he means to fob this off onto that Claude, if Claude prime is his Claude. Whichever Claude. He doubts he'd be able to avoid whatever's coming even if he did intend that. ]
And that—
[ Can he explain it away? He'd have liked more time to craft an explanation. Prepared as he's been for some manner of discovery, he'd been unable to prepare for that. Here's a thought: why should it be a given that the fireflies reveal only the truth, the past as it happened? Why couldn't they be agents of confusion and deceit?
He'll pretend not to have recognized it. Worth a shot, anyway.
Claude shrugs. ]
Quite a story, isn't it?
no subject
[And, inexplicably, he does.
It is in the wariness of Claude's eyes and the guarded nature of his smile. The tightness of his shoulders that anticipates an argument and the shift of his footing- ever ready to make an escape as though it is a chore to linger.
There is nothing of this Claude that speaks of familiarity- of friendship- and it is... disheartening, though Lorenz would be loathe to admit it. More and more as they interact, he is finding himself regretting some of the harsher words shared between them in their youth. Regretting the harshness that must have been shared between them in Claude's world even though it is not his to regret in the least. And it swells within, that ever present guilt and fear. Could not more have been done? Was it folly or limit? Mistake or impossibility?
This is not the time.]
Claude. [He repeats the name instead, more severely this time. Don't play games with me.] What was that?
no subject
[ Smiling as his mind races. Is he so obvious? It's different with Hilda, but that might not be a fair comparison. After everything, it could only be Hilda. But it is different: that with Hilda, he accepts that she might look at him and understand. That her deceptively sharp eyes would see more than he'd intended, more than he crafted in the practiced swoop of his smile.
With Lorenz, even with their occasional discussion, he's less comfortable with the notion. It should not be very surprising, and it isn't, because once he'd been all too aware of the close attention Lorenz paid him. But then Lorenz had been drawn to the Black Eagles by that irresistible, uncanny magnetism Teach had. But then war.
It's been awhile.
Despite kneejerk discomfort, it isn't as though it's a bad thing. He has no desire to be confused with any other Claude, no intention of fostering that confusion. But in a moment such as this, put just that much on edge by the memory and its exposure, for Lorenz to approach in anger and recognition—
Well, he almost feels young again, so acute is the impetus to run. Energy stirs in his hands, his fingers, nervous. Claude's got too much self-control to fist them or to yield to crossing his arms.
That would only make him look as defensive as he feels.
And once again with this Lorenz, Claude wonders for how long he can maintain a deceit. at least this is one he knows. Likely not very.
But he'll stall for time, anyway, repeating himself neatly from their first meeting here. ]
As ever, Lorenz, you'll need to be more specific. What part of it? If you mean the entire,
[ Hand waved wide, gesturing to the space once occupied by the moving images ]
then I'd like to know, myself.
no subject
I am referring, of course, to the contents of your memory. [A pause, then a faint look of irritation as he realizes he might yet have a need to explain what just occurred.] That is what these are, I mean. Each time a firefly comes into contact with an individual, a memory is chosen at random and displayed upon the mists for all to see. And, while I admit it was an egregious breach of privacy, it was hardly intentional and is not the primary concern I have.
[And he gestures, once more, to Claude. More specifically to his side where the blade had been buried.] Well? If you won't care to explain yourself, I suspect I can come up with a guesses of my own. Certainly I've had practice over the years we've known each other.
no subject
Easier, too, if Lorenz had no understanding of what the fireflies had produced. Of course, he'd recognized his own memory, though hadn't the opportunity to experiment in earnest. Having so recognized, he cannot yet say as much to Lorenz, or indicate that he'd gathered as much from the display. Not while he maintains hope of convincing him that he hadn't seen an actual event from Claude's childhood.
Dwindling though that hope. ]
Is that so... Are you certain that they only show memories?
[ Playing dumb, perhaps. Deflection, maybe. But it's a fair question, isn't it? It's at least possible that some project fiction.
If only Lorenz would humor it. Claude senses that he's delaying the inevitable, and not well. And it's... frustrating. The egregious violation of privacy may not be Lorenz's primary concern, but in the moment, it sure is Claude's. He could pretend the images were fiction, that he had no recollection of such an event. But from the way Lorenz speaks, of the ability and intention to make his guesses, Claude suspects that wouldn't get him far.
For once, Claude, too, sighs. ]
Lorenz... I don't care to explain myself. I can't.
[ Because the display had been invented -- or, because he'd promised his parents those years ago. ]
Honestly, I'd like it if you wouldn't guess.
no subject
This feels… defeated.
And it reflects on his face- the surprise, the momentary flicker of hurt, and then the determination that can only be considered customary. Lorenz is, as ever, one to wear his heart on his sleeve. And, perhaps, if this Claude had been his own, damned as such a differentiation may be, he might have relented. Would have held enough faith to believe
But it is not and therefore he cannot.]
And I suppose I am just to accept this? [He waves at the fog around them, at the fireflies which flitter this way and that.] Claude, whatever you think of me, you cannot expect I would simply let this go. Certainly not while- [-I don’t know where you are.
And it drags at his emotions, an unfortunate possibility. Certainly he has harbored his suspicions even since Claude took to riding his wyvern, but he had never given it proper consideration. Whether from lack of time or because it… simply hadn’t mattered anymore. But after, once the war was over, once Claude…]
… Was that Almyra? [Is that what you returned to.]
no subject
Foolish to admit his own reluctance, his true preference. Too much on edge and blundering, in a way he hasn't in years. Has death made him so clumsy? Or is it the strangeness of this man's familiarity, the soft attention behind his fixation -- what could be sentiment and sincere.
He's right, of course. Whether the Lorenz in his own time or the one before him, Claude could not and cannot expect that he would let it go. That he would not latch, hold, pull, pry.
Claude is terribly conscious of his own heartbeat. His blood has carried it to his ears and there it thunders, if only, but not nearly, loud enough to drown out what is next spoken. He is conscious of his teeth in his head, the fit of each as they grit, as he urges the tension from his jaw. He is conscious of the anxiety in his fingers, forbidden the movement that would relieve it. And he's conscious of what Lorenz will say before he says it.
It isn't as though Claude had been as discreet these last years. His training, his attire. Relying upon Nader and his Almyran forces at Derdriu.
But he hadn't even spoken it as he asked for his life. Perhaps that, his continued evasion of the plain truth, had been part of what moved Edelgard's hand and swung her axe. He has not yet broken his oath to his parents or spilled his secrets. His mind darts now, whipping through responses, unable to find the words that would not confirm it.
To laugh and lie, Lorenz would surely suspect. As he would suspect any deflection. Any hesitation, any overt expression, anything but what confirmed it. Really, was he even asking? Did he simply ask what he already knew? Because Claude cannot be panicked, cannot be frustrated, cannot be miserable, he isn't.
He isn't.
Lucky that his mind works so feverishly quick. It hasn't been but a couple of seconds before Claude raises his eyebrows, affecting mild interest. ]
That's an interesting guess. Why Almyra?
[ He might as well hear the evidence gathered against him. ]
no subject
For all Claude’s posturing and deflections, he has yet to realize that such things can be as much a giveaway as the opposite, if one knows to look.
And oh, how Lorenz has learned to look.
The deliberate removal of a reaction has in its place created a stillness. A purposeful facade of nonchalance that reeks unnatural in such a serious conversation. It is telling, Lorenz thinks, of discomfort and tension. Of something that twinges and drags so deeply that Claude cannot help but be conscious of how it bothers. Cannot help but counter with something habitual and reflexive. And, in his reaction, he has created something just as easily noticeable for someone who has spent near a lifetime watching.
And so to that guarded question, fishing in response to fishing, he cannot help but offer a soft, empty little smile of his own.]
After all this time, surely you must give me more credit than that. [And a pause as the smile fades to something a little more resigned.] … but you can’t, can you? [Because he doesn’t know.
Where, he wonders, do their shared experiences even end? At the fall of Garreg Mach? A little sometime after? Perhaps even before that. Some fatal flaw in their interactions as to divide them permanently. To the point they could never see eye to eye, enough for Lorenz to throw his weight behind the Empire and turn upon him.
Surely this Claude never bent his head over candlelit papers late into the night with him. Never ruminated the tactical possibilities of this plan or that. Never offered overwhelmingly ridiculous schemes, some he had to know would be refuted purely on principle, simply to evoke a reaction out of Lorenz. Never once had a shared glance, simply knowing with but a look what must be flitting through the other’s mind.
But you don’t know what you’ve had until you’ve…
It hurts a little, to realize so late, the trust given to him. To all of them. The introduction of Nader, the obvious Almyran reinforcements, the way Claude had quietly told him on that windy night.
”I’m not quite the same, no.”]
… because you told me. [And there is no missing the emphasis on “you.”
Claude but not Claude. And they had been told, hadn’t they? Not in words, not in speeches, but in subtleties. Small, implied things so indirect that it could only be called fitting of the one to whom they were owed.
Claude, in all forms seemingly, would always be incapable of a straight answer.]
obv...ignore this.. .
Delaying the inevitable, really. He might as well have just turned and walked away. Whatever it might do to their working relationship here, things would be as they generally should. Lorenz is too practical and too sensible to permit his relationship with his Claude (strange) to suffer because the so-called impostor had brushed him off. And why not have this limit to connection with those trapped here, this impasse, when if the end result was everyone being returned to their proper time and place, he would be little more than an interesting memory, if that?
After all this time, surely you must give me more credit than that.
Surely. Enough to grant that his retort merely delayed, dug his heels against a current already pulling the sands beneath him with it.
Not much more than that. He can't, it's true, and plainly, to put it just like that, he doesn't like the smile with which Lorenz says it. Doesn't care for the evidence of his pain, of his disappointment, that grappling with what they aren't leaves his hands cut, blistered.
He'd never gotten through to his Lorenz, not before he'd marched with the Empire and not after.
Again, Claude too grapples, with what should not reach him, what should not feel lost, because he had never had it to lose. Distracting and inconvenient, loss like a ghost limb.
What a terrible and appropriate culmination of all of it, of everything, to hear the last.
That he'd told Lorenz.
Claude cannot believe he had done so directly, in words as obvious and simple as "I was born in Almyra" or some iteration thereof. But he can imagine how it might have built. How his grip might have loosened, gradually.
In that moment, if only that moment, he cannot school his features. Not in time, not at all. Surprise beneath a furrowed brow, surprise in the white ringing his eyes, surprise in the part of his mouth, in the bitterness on his tongue, the closure of his throat.
Surprises that fades like a mottling bruise into sentiment that isn't, something he's already dug out, cut out, something like exhaustion, something like defeat. Something that he can only cover, just now, with his hand, lifted to rake through his hair, to perch against his brow. ]
OK.
[ Now what? Now rubbing at his eyes, now rummaging for a smile and coming up empty. ]
Even so, that just means I'm not the one you should be asking.
[ Let his Claude tell him about Almyra. Damn that he sounds as tired as he feels. ]