[ he was an open wound, festering into nothingness. his body had emptied itself into the gutters of the alleyway; the drug induced haze, casting a blanket of fog over the expanse of his mind, reduces into soberness slowly and surely. the aches, the pains, the grief hits him in numb waves, sloshing about in his head and cementing him to the ground.
his mask cracks just enough to catch a blinding glimpse of the sunlight.
the world fades into black silence.
he sees it, now; stacks of books, piled high enough to rival the ceiling. this is a familiar sight. but the room — it’s different. it’s imbued with a morning dew, an ethereal glow even, that separates it from the dull greys he once knew.
there’s a throne. and—
his breath hitches.
he blinks. breathes in again. and out. slurring his words— ]
If this is a trick… I’ll fucking kill you…
[ when was the last time he spoke coherently? the prospect alone is a vague memory. but she is still here — seated on this throne that lies before him. he is on his knees, grasping for the ground, groping around for feeling in an attempt to decipher if this is reality. ]
She’s— dead. [ his eyes are burning furiously. since when did enkephelin do this to the human body? ] She’s dead, goddamn you! I killed her, she’s dead! [ roland’s fists thrash violently against the ground; a pure display of helplessness. ] S..Stop it… I can’t — can’t live like this… I know I deserve to but… I can’t— fuck…!
[ sunlight doesn't reach the deepest, grimiest parts of the library. it would be a lie to say it ever did, that the library was ever graced with the promise of the sun's golden rays. it could have been, once, but that's lost to the library now. this is her domain, her birthplace and her very tomb all in one. it doesn't matter if she ever feels the warmth of the sun on her human skin anymore— maybe it never did. ]
Oh?
[ the dingy, grey, lonely, monochrome library is blinding bright for a moment. something is spat out at her with all the ceremonial respect of a used napkin being thrown into a trash. angela, on her lonely throne, body wrapped in the cold, freeing feeling of bird's feathers, muses out loud as a memory floods her mind. ]
A truly nostalgic thing to see. A mere fragment of the invitation process. To me, now, ...it's almost like seeing a ghost.
[ how long has it been? years upon years, stacked up like books, teetering on the edge, ready to tumble and break apart. is this the moment, finally? all the same, she hasn't sent out an invitation. she doesn't much care. a problem is barely something angela can muster up the energy to care about; a tiny spider scuttles along the cover of an old, worn book. it lives here as much as she does. ]
Receiving guests in this manner feels new again... [ from her throne, she barely looks for more than a moment before a chill reaches up her spine.
a pause.
her gaze roves over the image before her; a figure cloaked in black and the agony of their own existence. the sunlight has never touched down within the lonely walls of the library, but— ]
... [ a noise escapes her. it is too tired to be surprised. too wrapped in grief and perhaps a touch of hesitancy, but... it is there. she blinks. angela only speaks when she realize she has forgotten to breathe. ]
As I sit here now, I can't help but imagine that you're not really living at all.
[ spoken as if she knows the feeling herself, spoken with breathlessly and winded from lungs that she killed for. spilling his blood gave birth to the pale librarian, the vision cloaked in raven's feathers. she's nothing more than a caged bird.
and yet, looking at him writing on the ground... the pale librarian even wonders if she should be calling herself angela. ]
[ a characteristically soft voice, and yet it digs its heels into the fabric of his mind, drawing the cloak of fog back; his brain is raw and aching from the exposure to this distant world he'd once known.
roland stumbles onto his feet. he reeks of alcohol, and blood and vomit and all things vile and natural to the lowest depths of the backstreets; he is a walking wastebin of a man, with that sullied black suit and smatters of blood for embellishment. he lugs Durandal behind him and staggers towards the woman drunkenly. he is, much to his surprise, completely sober; it makes the ache deepen all the more. ]
You... I see you, sometimes... no-- everyday... [ his mask is still fixed to his face, concealing his contorted expression of pain, but the brokenness with which he speaks gives him away. ] Your body, dangling... headless, like you were in that moment... but every now and then... your face is there too -- and you're smiling, just like before... why did you smile at me...? [ he chokes back something reminiscent of a sob. ] Why did you show me that expression? I'll always loathe you for that...
[ he stands at her throne now, shoulders firmer than they have been in months. this face -- those singed feathers, the ash blue hair, the probing golds of her eyes... yes; he wishes he could forget this beloved ghost of his. but here she sits before him, as lifeless as he is. ]
Angela. [ roland raises his blade, pointing it to her and allowing its tip to graze against her shoulder. he can feel the weight of her flesh beneath its touch. ] I have to see if this is a dream... show this dog one last trick, will you...
[ he's a feral man, wild and untamed and lost and the pale librarian feels her heart skip a beat as he stumbles towards her. it's an uneven shuffle full of desperation, a pitiful display: a molting peacock that can't put it's money where it's mouth is. she rests her elbow on her throne built from the ground up on a bed of bodies and books and knowledge. balances her chin upon her pale, just barely pink skinned knuckles. her golden gaze rests on the smudge of black hobbling toward her.
his weapon touches her. she says nothing of it. she fears nothing. if this is the end, she can rest knowing she got to hear his voice at the end. it's enough to hear it spill out of his mouth; his truth, his world, the life he came to live.
the pale librarian sighs. angela breathes, slow and even. ]
A trick? In that vein, I have nothing for you. Books, perhaps, knowledge, yes... May you find that which you seek, dear guest.
[ she plays the role, reads the script, but something sits so heavy on her heart. her blood is pumping. he's still masked; somehow, it hurts. ]
I made a mistake a long time ago. I won't be making it again.
[ before she can be quiet for too long, she continues, her voice a river that can't stop flowing. ] Roland...
Is the mask... because I can't remember your face? Or do you no longer wish to meet me?...
[ she speaks to him gently -- with longing. with remorse. he swallows down a wail. gnashes his teeth hard enough to stress his jaw. the fingers wound around the hilt of his blade quake violently, and before he realizes it, Durandal has fallen and clattered against the floor. it echoes throughout the hollow of this cavern, of this wretched nest. ]
Why are you saying my name like that... [ his hands brace against his head, cradling it desperately. ] No, I killed you... I lied to you... spat the cruelest words imaginable at you like venom... I wanted you to kill me... but you smiled instead. Even now...
[ one of his hands maneuvers towards the mask; his fingers stop shy of one of its ridges. they're still shaking, as if he were a child. ]
I don't know how to take it off anymore. [ a minute stretches out between them as if it were an eternity. roland slumps forward, inclining his head towards her. ] ...
[ he gives her an option -- offers her a neck to crush beneath her fingertips or a face to unveil. a pathetic, filthy, ragged face, but the face of her former servant no less. ]
[ it is a set of options she could only ever indulge in when dreaming, when wishing, when praying. the loneliness and the ghost of him and his hatred haunting her— he had died like this before. mask on, face concealed. a "thing." an "absence." lacking. in that way, she could have projected anything upon that mask. anger, misery, pain... but they were her own feelings.
she never really knew roland's feelings.
in her chest, her heart is a bird. wings fluttering desperately, fighting against the cage, wanting to flee and explore. it's painful, deeply so, agonizingly so. angela's heart beats with fear. does she deserve this? it's true; he had died crying out the most loathsome things he could... but it was easier before... to simply make her own selfish decision.
would it be a disgrace to roland if she looked? it's a neat play. easy, simple. straight to the point. wrap her hands around his throat, squeeze, crush his windpipe, watch him die again. wouldn't it be a better apology than this?
when angela raises her hand, it is with a decidedly human grace. more ballerina than robot, and it is with that graceful movement that she slips her fingers under the lip of his mask, finding the skin of his face in her palm. warm, bony. alive. she could wretch in anxiety. ]
As I said before. I am not making the same mistake, Roland...
[ she was going to pick this. angela removes the mask to expose his naked face to the world again, to let the dusty, ghostly air of the abandoned looking library caress his cheeks. it is not where they ever planned to end up, but after years of solitude—
roland and angela look at each other's faces. a little older, sicker looking, but it is the two of them. ]
I wanted to see it at least once more... now that I have it in my grasp, I'm not letting it go.
[ his face? perhaps. she means him; her precious, dearest friend. ]
[ in the pits of his heart, he knew she would do this. time slows, inch by inch, as she delicately rips his mask away. would she be revolted? deny him once as she already had, allegedly? he could hardly envision what remained.
but the light floods into his periphery, and her eyes bore into his, claws coveting his jaw. he is a weak man; always has been. and so a weight spatters against his own cheek, and he realizes there are tears flowing from his eyes in a neverending stream. ]
I regret it everyday. [ he says in a quieted breath. ] My choice. The loss of you. O, my sorrow... you are better than a well beloved.
[ as the tears gradually slow, he looks to meet her gaze blearily. there is warmth emanating from her body; so it seems she had achieved her wish. and yet her cheeks are pale with death. ]
...In the end, it's just you and me again, isn't it? [ a weak, miserable laugh. ] Okay. I'll take it.
[ empathy is a strange emotion. the release that comes with seeing someone like him, someone so dear and precious to her, weep like this before her hits angela like a bat to the face. her other hand comes up to cup his cheek, to let his tears rain down over her metacarpus like baptism waters. her amygdala shudders. she's almost afraid to hold him too close, to listen to his voice. as if this were a confessional, she speaks again, eyes watery and gaze misty as his face, hollow and empty, swirls and blurs like melting watercolors before her. ]
It's been thirteen years... a human mind doesn't remember as well, but it's almost to the day now, isn't it? [ another beat passes, an echoing sort of silence full of absolutely nothing but them two in their aging agony and grief. ] Roland. I'm sorry, too.
[ she is silent for a moment longer before blinking and looking away, down, ashamed. ] Even though my wish came true... the first thing I ever felt as a human was regret. This body lacks meaning without the person who fought with me by my side.
[ a sparkling resolve lights up her face for just a moment, her voice quick and cutting. ] I've seen enough.
[ she pauses a moment, her taloned fingers flexing on his cheeks, watching him sob. ]
[ he relishes that comfort — nuzzles his face into her embrace, trying to capture every inkling of her warmth. her touch was real. different, but real. ]
I don’t know how the hell this happened, [ his palm settles over her black hand, and his fingers clasp around it as if to hold her against him. ] But I’ll be thankful for this miracle, this one time… [ his breath hitches on the verge of a sob — but he stops himself, and musters the strength to smile faintly. a light that has been smothered by the darkness, but has been revived with the smallest of embers. ]
…It’s been less time for me. I just… [ a breath. ] Lost my mind is all. But you’ve… you’ve been alone this whole time. [ again. he left her to be alone again. and despite everything — she forgives him. wants him. ] … I’m here now, Angela.
[ it takes her a moment to consider it, how he's here despite it all. to one another, the other is dead, killed by their own hands... for revenge, for freedom, to not be held down. in her silence, however, she accepts it as much as he does. this miracle is something they could only have now. ]
The library brings those here who are searching for something. A wish great enough to span time and space. I wonder what it would look like? [ like this? is implied in her tone. ]
You asked why I smiled. [ her hands fall, fingers curling gingerly. she's become human, but something else, too. a star; something grander than anything and yet... ] ...If I had the chance to do it over... that's what I would have done. Smiled, and accepted your anger. It was the only way to ask for forgiveness.
[ even now, she thinks, maybe that is the only way. ]
I should have known better, [ he speaks through a labored breath. ] I knew -- that killing you wouldn't have done anything for me. But I was afraid. Afraid that the pain and joy would have meant nothing if I didn't. I was a... [ he clenches his jaw, eyes lowering. ] Fucking idiot. I should have forgiven you. Maybe we... should have forgiven each other. But I guess that's why we're here now, huh?
[ roland finds his footing, stumbling backwards and rising up on his heels. he extends a gloved hand -- beckoning it towards angela. with what little strength in him that remains, he cobbles together just enough for the corners of his mouth to curl upwards, eyes softening. ]
Not sure what we should do but... you're human now. Might as well make the best of it.
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croftmanor2022-06-11 10:53 pm
no subject
his mask cracks just enough to catch a blinding glimpse of the sunlight.
the world fades into black silence.
he sees it, now; stacks of books, piled high enough to rival the ceiling. this is a familiar sight. but the room — it’s different. it’s imbued with a morning dew, an ethereal glow even, that separates it from the dull greys he once knew.
there’s a throne. and—
his breath hitches.
he blinks. breathes in again. and out. slurring his words— ]
If this is a trick… I’ll fucking kill you…
[ when was the last time he spoke coherently? the prospect alone is a vague memory. but she is still here — seated on this throne that lies before him. he is on his knees, grasping for the ground, groping around for feeling in an attempt to decipher if this is reality. ]
She’s— dead. [ his eyes are burning furiously. since when did enkephelin do this to the human body? ] She’s dead, goddamn you! I killed her, she’s dead! [ roland’s fists thrash violently against the ground; a pure display of helplessness. ] S..Stop it… I can’t — can’t live like this… I know I deserve to but… I can’t— fuck…!
no subject
Oh?
[ the dingy, grey, lonely, monochrome library is blinding bright for a moment. something is spat out at her with all the ceremonial respect of a used napkin being thrown into a trash. angela, on her lonely throne, body wrapped in the cold, freeing feeling of bird's feathers, muses out loud as a memory floods her mind. ]
A truly nostalgic thing to see. A mere fragment of the invitation process. To me, now, ...it's almost like seeing a ghost.
[ how long has it been? years upon years, stacked up like books, teetering on the edge, ready to tumble and break apart. is this the moment, finally? all the same, she hasn't sent out an invitation. she doesn't much care. a problem is barely something angela can muster up the energy to care about; a tiny spider scuttles along the cover of an old, worn book. it lives here as much as she does. ]
Receiving guests in this manner feels new again... [ from her throne, she barely looks for more than a moment before a chill reaches up her spine.
a pause.
her gaze roves over the image before her; a figure cloaked in black and the agony of their own existence. the sunlight has never touched down within the lonely walls of the library, but— ]
... [ a noise escapes her. it is too tired to be surprised. too wrapped in grief and perhaps a touch of hesitancy, but... it is there. she blinks. angela only speaks when she realize she has forgotten to breathe. ]
As I sit here now, I can't help but imagine that you're not really living at all.
[ spoken as if she knows the feeling herself, spoken with breathlessly and winded from lungs that she killed for. spilling his blood gave birth to the pale librarian, the vision cloaked in raven's feathers. she's nothing more than a caged bird.
and yet, looking at him writing on the ground... the pale librarian even wonders if she should be calling herself angela. ]
no subject
roland stumbles onto his feet. he reeks of alcohol, and blood and vomit and all things vile and natural to the lowest depths of the backstreets; he is a walking wastebin of a man, with that sullied black suit and smatters of blood for embellishment. he lugs Durandal behind him and staggers towards the woman drunkenly. he is, much to his surprise, completely sober; it makes the ache deepen all the more. ]
You... I see you, sometimes... no-- everyday... [ his mask is still fixed to his face, concealing his contorted expression of pain, but the brokenness with which he speaks gives him away. ] Your body, dangling... headless, like you were in that moment... but every now and then... your face is there too -- and you're smiling, just like before... why did you smile at me...? [ he chokes back something reminiscent of a sob. ] Why did you show me that expression? I'll always loathe you for that...
[ he stands at her throne now, shoulders firmer than they have been in months. this face -- those singed feathers, the ash blue hair, the probing golds of her eyes... yes; he wishes he could forget this beloved ghost of his. but here she sits before him, as lifeless as he is. ]
Angela. [ roland raises his blade, pointing it to her and allowing its tip to graze against her shoulder. he can feel the weight of her flesh beneath its touch. ] I have to see if this is a dream... show this dog one last trick, will you...
no subject
his weapon touches her. she says nothing of it. she fears nothing. if this is the end, she can rest knowing she got to hear his voice at the end. it's enough to hear it spill out of his mouth; his truth, his world, the life he came to live.
the pale librarian sighs. angela breathes, slow and even. ]
A trick? In that vein, I have nothing for you. Books, perhaps, knowledge, yes... May you find that which you seek, dear guest.
[ she plays the role, reads the script, but something sits so heavy on her heart. her blood is pumping. he's still masked; somehow, it hurts. ]
I made a mistake a long time ago. I won't be making it again.
[ before she can be quiet for too long, she continues, her voice a river that can't stop flowing. ] Roland...
Is the mask... because I can't remember your face? Or do you no longer wish to meet me?...
no subject
Why are you saying my name like that... [ his hands brace against his head, cradling it desperately. ] No, I killed you... I lied to you... spat the cruelest words imaginable at you like venom... I wanted you to kill me... but you smiled instead. Even now...
[ one of his hands maneuvers towards the mask; his fingers stop shy of one of its ridges. they're still shaking, as if he were a child. ]
I don't know how to take it off anymore. [ a minute stretches out between them as if it were an eternity. roland slumps forward, inclining his head towards her. ] ...
[ he gives her an option -- offers her a neck to crush beneath her fingertips or a face to unveil. a pathetic, filthy, ragged face, but the face of her former servant no less. ]
no subject
she never really knew roland's feelings.
in her chest, her heart is a bird. wings fluttering desperately, fighting against the cage, wanting to flee and explore. it's painful, deeply so, agonizingly so. angela's heart beats with fear. does she deserve this? it's true; he had died crying out the most loathsome things he could... but it was easier before... to simply make her own selfish decision.
would it be a disgrace to roland if she looked? it's a neat play. easy, simple. straight to the point. wrap her hands around his throat, squeeze, crush his windpipe, watch him die again. wouldn't it be a better apology than this?
when angela raises her hand, it is with a decidedly human grace. more ballerina than robot, and it is with that graceful movement that she slips her fingers under the lip of his mask, finding the skin of his face in her palm. warm, bony. alive. she could wretch in anxiety. ]
As I said before. I am not making the same mistake, Roland...
[ she was going to pick this. angela removes the mask to expose his naked face to the world again, to let the dusty, ghostly air of the abandoned looking library caress his cheeks. it is not where they ever planned to end up, but after years of solitude—
roland and angela look at each other's faces. a little older, sicker looking, but it is the two of them. ]
I wanted to see it at least once more... now that I have it in my grasp, I'm not letting it go.
[ his face? perhaps. she means him; her precious, dearest friend. ]
no subject
but the light floods into his periphery, and her eyes bore into his, claws coveting his jaw. he is a weak man; always has been. and so a weight spatters against his own cheek, and he realizes there are tears flowing from his eyes in a neverending stream. ]
I regret it everyday. [ he says in a quieted breath. ] My choice. The loss of you. O, my sorrow... you are better than a well beloved.
[ as the tears gradually slow, he looks to meet her gaze blearily. there is warmth emanating from her body; so it seems she had achieved her wish. and yet her cheeks are pale with death. ]
...In the end, it's just you and me again, isn't it? [ a weak, miserable laugh. ] Okay. I'll take it.
[ a long, long beat. ]
I'm sorry. For all of it.
no subject
It's been thirteen years... a human mind doesn't remember as well, but it's almost to the day now, isn't it? [ another beat passes, an echoing sort of silence full of absolutely nothing but them two in their aging agony and grief. ] Roland. I'm sorry, too.
[ she is silent for a moment longer before blinking and looking away, down, ashamed. ] Even though my wish came true... the first thing I ever felt as a human was regret. This body lacks meaning without the person who fought with me by my side.
[ a sparkling resolve lights up her face for just a moment, her voice quick and cutting. ] I've seen enough.
[ she pauses a moment, her taloned fingers flexing on his cheeks, watching him sob. ]
...because I am certain you will never leave me.
no subject
I don’t know how the hell this happened, [ his palm settles over her black hand, and his fingers clasp around it as if to hold her against him. ] But I’ll be thankful for this miracle, this one time… [ his breath hitches on the verge of a sob — but he stops himself, and musters the strength to smile faintly. a light that has been smothered by the darkness, but has been revived with the smallest of embers. ]
…It’s been less time for me. I just… [ a breath. ] Lost my mind is all. But you’ve… you’ve been alone this whole time. [ again. he left her to be alone again. and despite everything — she forgives him. wants him. ] … I’m here now, Angela.
no subject
The library brings those here who are searching for something. A wish great enough to span time and space. I wonder what it would look like? [ like this? is implied in her tone. ]
You asked why I smiled. [ her hands fall, fingers curling gingerly. she's become human, but something else, too. a star; something grander than anything and yet... ] ...If I had the chance to do it over... that's what I would have done. Smiled, and accepted your anger. It was the only way to ask for forgiveness.
[ even now, she thinks, maybe that is the only way. ]
no subject
[ roland finds his footing, stumbling backwards and rising up on his heels. he extends a gloved hand -- beckoning it towards angela. with what little strength in him that remains, he cobbles together just enough for the corners of his mouth to curl upwards, eyes softening. ]
Not sure what we should do but... you're human now. Might as well make the best of it.