2020-01-15: Her Fertile Craft
- Log: Her Fertile Craft
- Cast: Gwen Whitlock, Isiris Shango'Ra
- Where: Gwen's Mind
- Date: January 15th, 2020
- Summary: Over the course of several nights, Isiris makes his case to Gwen, each night winding the wire tighter around his harp.
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
Gwen can still remember it. The underwater temple. Her tired state, fresh from pushing herself to the edge of her abilities. Her right hand, her ARM, reaching forward to touch the tablet, fingertips straining to brush against the cool stone. The way the ice grew from the tablet, fanning out in a crystalline fashion, spreading up her right arm with frightening speed. Zed coming to her rescue, snatching her away before the growth of ice magic could do permanent damage.
How cold she felt, grasping onto whatever warmth she could find. Ironic, considering what scarred her body, so long ago,
As is her usual manner, she betrayed little of her fear to her friends beyond those who were present. Ida, whose own ARM echoed hers, provided some comfort and even some closure, turning a frightening experience into a bond between two ARM users who are still figuring out who they are.
Gwen knows who she is. She's a courier! Gulliver isn't here, being safe with Vash (as much as any horse could be safe with a man with the word 'Typhoon' in his nickname), but she now has a Gear, courtesy of the brave souls of the Thames. It works.
Mostly.
Except when it doesn't, leaving her temporarily stranded on an island, which is preferable to being left in the ocean beyond.
It's not a bad day, to be stranded, especially with the moon out as it is. A warm fire, some palm leaves to serve as a makeshift shelter against the bulk of her gear, and Gwen falls into her slumber, lulled by the crashing of the ocean waves against the sand.
<Pose Tracker> Isiris Shango'Ra has posed.
Water droplets crawl along the length of a wire.
Wet fingertips engage the shining length in the moonlight. Index flexing against the gentle stress of the fine metal line, the string shudders as it's held in countertension with the ring finger and thumb. The stress, it's an important thing. Because as the master stretches the line just so, you can feel it in every fiber of your being. It's as if every muscle strand and every tendon fiber were unspooled from the frame of you and tied end to end, strung through a great harp for the practice and interest of ancients. Everything that was the praxis and animus of you, no more substantial than a sliver of moonlight dancing in the warm night. Everything you are, annealed into a string.
A string that is currently wrapped around your throat.
Blood begins to mix with the water droplets, as the tension on the line grows, as the fingertips begin to bleed for their craft. Continents and leagues away, the master plucks the string of a harp, and you can feel it in your blood.
Droplets spatter the ground at your bare feet, wetting the sand. The boy -- as you have come to know him -- is not very far away. His eyes are closed, even as he strings the lute before her, seated at a great throne cut from the mirror black mountain. The throne makes him look small in comparison, and he nor the throne ever seem to be sitting at the same angle, no matter how many times you look.
If you look for long enough, he threads not a lute but is wrapping the threads of you along the gleaming edge of a saber.
"You thought so many things," the boy chides her, blindly winding the threads end over end. The threads form a long concentric slack, loops cascading down the long hilt of the blade, pooling over his still hand. "You thought you escaped. You thought everyone was safe. You thought you didn't need to be anything else."
The boy looks up, eyes still closed.
"You thought you survived ... didn't you?"
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
"....!"
To have that string, pulled taunt against her neck. It's a rude feeling, in the wake of being lured to sleep by the gentle lulling of moonlit waves.
Red dots scatter on the ground, red like the halo of pink-red in her hair, bleached in the white light.
And there, the assassin with the blue eyes. It had felt like ages since they had last met, long enough to make that initial terrible thought become ingrained into the borders of her mind, like a nail stuck in tree bark.
Of course he would be in this form. Gwen could never bring herself to hurt a child. Not even if the child is a manifestation, which, in this case, is still debatable.
After all, this could be a dream, just like the last time. Or was that the time before that? Or was this the first time?
.....
She tries to walk over, to will herself onto a knee so that she sits level with the boy's face. And gently, her will acting on barely remembered memories etched into the deepest core of herself, she does the thing someone else did when she was young- even younger than the sullen boy before her.
The courier extends her left hand to the boy, fingers outstretched, with the gentle manner. But not far enough to touch him, directly, as her body remembers the pain needling deep into the skin of her bared neck.
It wouldn't be right, to put your hand on a boy with his eyes closed, even if to comfort.
But the fingers are still there, perhaps unspooling right in front of her, as she waits.
When she opens her mouth, Gwen us not sure what will come out of her throat at this point- the singing of a harp, the squawk of a crow, or the harsh sounds of her breath, struggling for air.
"Whether it's you, Sin, Odessa, or whatever else, there's always something out there. Nothing is truly safe."
There is nothing she can do, if this is real. And if it isn't, she will eventually wake up.
She'll just accept, for now.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"
<Pose Tracker> Isiris Shango'Ra has posed.
"What a pleasant thought."
He is focused on his task, drawing long lengths of the wire through his scarlet-stained fingertips. If one looked at him in the right angle, in the right direction, one could easily imagine him peering at the line to inspect its clarity in the moonlight, finding the ones that are just barely and finely ash-colored, the ones that are just the right thickness, and consistency to string onto the instrument, which sits in his lap like a cherished doll. One could easily imagine this, except that his eyes never open, not even a sliver.
There is a certain gravity towards his face, no matter how young he is. The closer one looks at his face, at his closed eyes, the more dissonant the world feels. The more you can hear the threads of you hum audibly, quivering, shaking, sharp enough to cut through the dream, and cause your soul to bleed.
The young boy doesn't smile.
"But.. it's just a dream, isn't it?"
The closer you come to the boy, the harder it is to determine which direction is quite the right way to go. His fingertips flex onto the wire, providing even the finest tension on the line as he strings the bass line, moonlight coating the silver line for just the right ring. But as he pulls, something -- breaks -- within you, or your perception. The lightest pressure of his finger, and there is an unmistakable impression of you kneeling before him. Reaching up to him, strings and threads and wire spooling around every fingertip, reaching up to the impossible boy in his impossible throne.
But isn't that what you wanted?
Another moment later, and your feet are beneath you, as you walk away from him on the sands. Did you not want to come closer? He plucks the line, producing the finest, deepest note. You approach him, your neck freed from the line. Your will is strong, and you have agency. Though, the truth is you can get no closer to him than your opposite numbers.
They are varying ideas of you at your best, the dreams that you have and share and the ones that boys have of you when you're kind to them. They all try to make their way towards him, only to be arrested at the foot of his throne. It's hard to remember which 'idea' of yourself you are. Whether you're supposed to kneel. Whether you are on your knees. How many hands and strings there are to hold you..
You reach out towards him, and it's like reaching into the milk of a mirror, your left hand unfurling into a thousand pages of music, fluttering, scattering pages from the oblivion book as you get closer to the boy. The flesh flutters away as parchment, revealing your right hand, as it reaches out to touch the young boy. That sweet, killing child.
"It's kind of you to think that I'm the danger to you. Or any of those others.."
In each harsher ideation of yourself, you suffer progressively more for getting closer to him, finding him in even more vicious hospitality towards her. In one, she bleeds until there's nothing left but stains on the page. Another, he unspools her for the wrapping for his saber. The 'idea' of the danger he presents is in harsh contrast to the kind words he has, the gentle nature he shows her.
"Mercy is the worst kind of dream, after all. The idea that anything, or anyone can achieve 'redemption.' These false gods that we worship...parasites in the sky and paramilitants in their caves... my forgiveness for them is bittersweet. Knowing that at any moment, you could just take them away with a sweep of your hand."
The boy adjusts the tension on the string, until the edge of his blade is impossibly sharp. Your right hand could rest on him, if you only took a step closer. There is a way to solve the problems and the suffering of others. He is so kind to you, above all the others, who suffer just for trying.
"Oh, my pet..."
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
"I dunno, is it?"
The awareness of this world being a dream is vague like most things in a dream, Gwen's mind treating it as an amalgam of reality and fiction, changing the notion of what rules will work like waves washing on the shore.
This is a dream, so this is simply what Gwen chose to remember of Isiris.
This is not a dream, so this is simply Isiris choosing to make some attempt.
It is something inbetween, far enough from memory and reality that Gwen suspends herself from that wire.
Even as it vibrates like a violin with a precise sweep of a bow.
"...!" A hiss of breath escapes the courier's lips as something is plucked at, like a disturbing cloud passing over her moon. A silver lining is there when it passes. A vision.
And now she's standing, her feet underneath her on the sands.
Meanwhile, the many selves of her walk towards the impossible boy. They're all the ones that lack the secluded nature of the girl she was, held up in her room with her bandages, smelling of medicinal ointments and old books. They're not the dour girl she became immediately after, held back not by the lack of an arm but by the scarred skin, the grafts, the dust that wiggled into every wrinkle and whorl of skin, the fragile, ill nestling that was her heart.
Every one was the girl with the weapon for an arm. Smiling, reaching out hands, offering, asking. Kneeling.
"You _did_ kill me, and attacked many people I consider friends. That makes you pretty high on the list of dangers." The idea of each hand is offerred blurs, just like her own hand seemed to not matter. Left, right, right, left right left, did it matter?
Redemption. Mercy. Gwen's lips purse. ".... A man once related a question to me: to save a a butterfly, would you kill a spider? .... I suppose, the question I got for you is, in all those cases, is it really mercy if you tried to choose one over the other? Is the butterfly less deserving, because it can't fight back? Or ss a spider less deserving, because killing is in its nature?"
Oh, how she wanted Janus to redeem himself. Redeem himself, by himself, in the only way that felt proper. Because- "... Redemption ain't something someone else can give, unless the person lookin' for it needs that person to redeem them. Me reaching this hand out to you... I suppose, it's to redeem myself."
But she isn't the butterfly. Is she the spider, perhaps?
'Oh, my pet....'
It could have as easily come from the lips of a lover, if they were drained of context, and separated from the boy in front of her.
Her hand, right or left, jerks away, Gwen's gaze turning hard as pale blue slate.
"I am _not_ your pet."
<Pose Tracker> Isiris Shango'Ra has posed..
"Synchronicity is a grand circuit, spread all over the world. The moment that you 'understand' that the moment that lies ahead is not one that belongs to you, the great work begins. When you begin that work, the world will show you her smile."
Reaching towards that boy is like dipping your hands into a warm pool. The world becomes liquid, growing more fluid by the chasmal moment, the world growing bigger, oceanic, and empty as time crawls to a standstill as the young courier submerges herself willingly. She does not drown. But to wit, there is no 'space' to breathe. The world, as deep and leviathan as it is, is empty.
When everything is as cold and as still as only the vacuous evernight can be, she can feel his absent pluck at the strings, the slit of his wrist along the edge of the blade, a song of pain so sharp that it isn't even felt at all. The boy bears her an infinitely patient demeanor, and despite the fact that by now over 66 of her opposite numbers are in some form of agonizing bondage, he shows her no aggression, no ill will or force. It's easy to believe oneself special in that case, an important person to the song that she can hear, somewhere deep in her bones. The boy strums only the first few notes on the half-strung lute, but the flower blooms, fully-formed but barely remembered in the mind.
A song that cannot be remembered, but recognized, all the same.
'The first few notes describe futility, in all things.'
The boy is silent for a time as the woman recoils from the redemption she so sought, his expression fine and wan under the moonlight. His eyes are clsed, but the gesture does not seem lost on him. 'Revulsion' is an emolution with a sound that originates from the back of the body, and it is that faint sound that draws the boy's attention, the slightest incline of his head predating her harsh words.
"I'm sorry for the assumptions that have led you so astray," the boy apologizes, his voice tinged with the faintest color of regret. With the timespan stretching between what she says and his response, there is no clear indicator of what exactly he may be replying to, the idea disjointed from the next.
"This world is so thin and backwards... a place of suffering and 'madness of the heart.' We do not have the necessary frame of understanding for these redemptions that we hand out so plainly," the boy reflects sadly, affixing the last line to the blade, checking the flat along the fret, making a low-toned sound with his hum along the length of the strings, as if he could whisper something deep into the threads of the older woman's soul.
"I'm sorry you have to live in the world of butterflies and spiders," the boy apologizes again, even as one of Gwen's iterations falls to the ground, the strings winding around her throat again and again, tightening until she turns limp and the palest shade of blue...
"A world where you must kill both."
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
To reach towards him is warmth, to back away is cold, like casting herself into the void of the ocean.
It's easier to dismiss the many, many other selves, to recognize that she had nearly died many, many times. So many instances where she could have died, should have died, as if not dying by flame was somehow avoiding a debt the universe had inflicted on her being alive. And time and time again, she had to evade it, either by discarding a part of herself, or embracing another.
It was never as simple as 'just survive'. To be where she is, she had to fight. It was the only way to survive.
It was the only way to survive, when no one was around to save her for her, or take the brunt of her debt to existence.
All this slowly becomes clearer as the flower blooms in her mind, like a sea anemone, or a nightly bloom of a lone cactus in the desert.
He almost had her. But she's recoiling away now, but not too far, shaking her head. "... You weren't like this before, when I met you. You were a boy, a young boy, this... this is wrong." Dream logic tears as much as it binds, Gwen questioning the calmness of the boy in front of her, and not the fact that she is talking to a construct of her dream, a form of the one whose name she has never learned, the man who came so close to killing her.
It's lost within the the notes of that lullaby, the song he plays, whispering into deep into her core.
"A world where..." If this were the real world, those few worlds would have been enough to shut Gwen off entirely. The seed that another had planted, so long ago, with a simple act, would have demanded it.
"To kill both? Why kill both? What would that accomplish? I don't understand." Lines crease the young woman's face, a hand held to her head.
“Why should I listen to you…?”
<Pose Tracker> Isiris Shango'Ra has posed.
b̵̫̂e̸͚͆c̶̼͑ā̷͕u̵̫͝s̵̪͛e̵̮̒
"I was," the boy replies fondly. Bleeding fingers slide along the length of the lines, the sweet sound reverberating along the discomfited drifter as finely as it does in the casing of the lute, the strands along the blade. He tunes by feel and by ear alone, his eyes still shut. "And why shouldn't I have been who I was or who I am," he answers, in that meanderingly conversational sort of way. A simple truth, one that stands on its own. "Aren't you who you are? And if you aren't... who are you?"
b̴e̴f̶o̶r̴e̴,̸ ̸i̷ ̴h̸a̶d̵ ̵n̸o̴t̷h̴i̶n̷g̵ ̶t̶o̴ ̶s̴h̶a̶r̸e̸ ̸w̴i̵t̴h̵ ̵y̷o̶u̸
"Who has that determination, to determine what is wrong and what is right? What is a monster, and what is a child? Even a monster can have her heart broken... Who has the right to censure the work of God so? Who is so self assured to think that they are the strongest, the most dominant of her children, to preconceive in themselves the right to judge the obscenity of her fertile craft?"
n̶̘͚̣͉̺̟̥̂͌̓͒̑̈͛͒͘͘͝͝͝ơ̸̧͕̬̯̫͖̦̳͙͐͌͋̚w̸̡̭̲̠̪̮̗̮͎̯͔̜̗̳̯̦̮̗͔̯̼̤̘̞͉͚̘͗̾͜,̴̛̗̤̯̺̫̝͇̙̯̗͆̀͋̓̌̒̋̑̈̊̒͛̾͊̌̏̑̈́͐̇͛́̅͠ͅͅ ̵̗̃͆͑͌̀̍̂i̵̧̢̺̯̬͔̪̞̞̰̹̮̺͙̹̇̋̆̇̉̕̕͜ͅ ̵̢̨̨͉̠̜͙̯͍͔̣̮̫͙̠̠̲̥̹̘̦̝̠͇̳͖̟͑̇̓̃̉̀͗̅̏̀̽̈́̽͝ͅd̷͎̲̙͇͕̰͉̹͇̀͑̈͆́̏̔̓̇͌̀͆̎̈̓͋̊̄̈̓̋̽̀̒͜͝o̵̡̨̝͖̲̳͖̞̮̞̭̗̰̍̈̏̉̒̌̄̅̋̓̉̈́̋̊͌̅́
He smiles at her. The expression is faint, of the sort easily lost underwater. "We are those who she left behind, after all. Even in the mildest pains," the young boy trails off, plucking a chord with a velveteen touch. The agony of the strum brings a tear to the eye. The boy gently reaches into you with a chord of clarion, and he moves something, something so small that you could scarce be called upon to say what it is, even if laid out on a table before you. The best to describe the sensation is a 'derealization.' There is nothing about you that is set. You are everything that you are in this moment, and everything else you are is in the past.
i̵̘̇ ̸͙̆w̵͖̓i̴̅ͅl̴̫̊l̶̜͗,̴͘͜ ̷̞́b̴͔̎e̷̽ͅc̵͍̑ă̵̳ú̴̮s̶͕͑e̸̯̍..
It is hard to shake the sensation that bits and parts of you are being shuffled inside. Parts, organs, flesh. It is agonizing, but not crippling. The pain is nothing you haven't dealt with before. There is no part of you that you are not strong enough to withstand changing. And, perchance it to say, after a moment you may not notice it at all. It is, after all, just a song, isn't it..?
He reiterates, even as the first few notes bleed with agonizing and seductive clarity from the strings. "Even in the mildest of pain," he opines, "we can see what she once was in resplendence. She is our mother, our grandmother, our aunt, our sister. Everything we've lost, she is. The pain we go through now is our aria to her. We are those left behind in pale imitation. We are beautiful only in that we breathe, that we are living legacy to..."
s̴̛̼̩͈͕̲̤͇̖̬̼̺̿̉̉͑̽̑̽͐͒͆͌͛͑̊̓́͋̒̅͗̿̋́͑͠h̵̲̭̞̭͇̙̮̥̜̫̏͆̈͂̈́͋̐͐̃̉́̈́́̽͆͆̈́̃̍̓̇̊͘͘̕͝͝͝ͅę̴̡̛̳͔̜̹̰̣̳̍̂̾̐̓̏̃̃́̌̇͑̅̃̈͌͘͜ ̵̡̧̦̯͈̜̖͔̟̤͓̬͍̝͈͔̭̤̳͕͔͇̜͎̀̑̈̈́͐̔̎̽͜͜͠͝ͅḯ̷̡̨̡̛̲̯̤̩̹̞̗̻̩̞̥̩̟̝̠̫̳̹̩̱͔̝̘̹͖͖͉͋̇̅̍͗̾͌̅͂̃̈̈͛́̍̔̋͋̾̇̏̏͂͘̚̕͝͠ś̸̨͔̰̦͇̹̻͚̬͊̈́ͅ ̷̞̜̹̠̠̭̪͚͎̞̗͎͍͎͔͍̼̯̗̘̜̮̽̀̇̿̊ţ̷̝̻̪̖̠̪͚̀̊̌͌͆͑̈̽͋̒͌̄̿̇̐̀̽̎́̚h̸̹͚͙̣̱̖̫͒̂̆̈́̄̽̆̾̊̀̑̈́̓͌̆̓̅̌̉͐͊̒͒͘̚͠͝e̶̢̱̬͎̞̳̭̞͎̳͖̝̪̜̮̣̻̩͎̣̜̲̰̹̫͇̘̜̫͗̽̔̎͐͜͝͝ ̶̭͇͈̝̫̳̱͉̘͕͈̩̘̘̦̳̣̀͆͌̌̎͛͌̓̔͋̑̈́̋̀̍̈́͊͐̚̕͜͝͝m̶̧̢̡̡̛̮͎̥͈̗͙̳̞̗͙̺͎̠̝̟̼̮̳͎͙͙̪̳̹͖͕͆͒̍̌̊̉̀́̄̈́͗̇̑̌̃͐̈̎̕͝ͅͅo̸̢̢̢̡̩͍̘̫̰͉̘͉̰̼̦͉͓̣̠̲͈̠̻͓̞͎̲̳̖͚̓̀̑ş̶̨̲͍̜͚̟͚̮̩͈͉̙̫̤̻͚̬̠̘̆̂̀͛̄͗̀̏́̐͂͗̂̄̽̅́͛̊̀́̉͋͌͋͒͑͊͑͆͊͜͜͠ͅṫ̵̲̼̠̫̮̬̥̱̜̼͚̮̅ͅ ̶̛͕̳͓̰͎̖̇̐̐̉͌̔̔͌́́̃̆̆͂̽͘͘͜͝͠m̴̛̳̺̗͈̜̹͉̠͓̫͙̗͍̺̼̜̼̟͉̞̪̻̥͚̱̭͈̼͇̪̮̮͆̉̆͐̅͐̍͗̎̈̏̒̀̎̔̍̍̐̓͗̏̒̋̅̐̏͗͗̽̂̋͜e̴̢̧̢̢̛̼̥̹̳̩͖̳͇̺̹͈͕̟̫̩͉̠͇͖̮͓͍͚̩͓̞̝͂̓͛̏̐̽̓͛̀͒̀̑͒͐̎͋̀͊̊͗̓̉̍͘͜͝͝r̵̢̡͙̠͇̫͖̞͔͍͈͓̤͕̪͚͐̽̍̿̇̀͗͆͛̓͒̾̊͒̃͋̀̍̑́͗͂̏̓̕̕̕͠͠͠͝ͅͅͅc̸̨̨͍̯̘͉͕̞̘̝̪̮͎͕̪̜͖̟̜̭̟͎̣̄͒̑̏̓́ͅį̷̛̲̜͉͇̥͙̖͖̲̯̲͇̫͕̞̿͂̌̇f̴̼̟͓͉͒̈̎̀̈́̓̏͛͗̑͗̾́̌̈́̂́͗̏̽̀͆̓̚̕̕͝ͅư̷̱̲̺͓͓̭̣̜̲̘͕̭̐̌̀̈́͋̓̍̉̆͜l̵̥͇͚̲̰͉̮͈̄͌̈́̈́̎̈̈́͗̓̎̅͊̈́̇͑̍̔̋͌̓̀̈́̓̒͌͋͜͝
He pauses again, a subtle demarcation of shyness subsuming his meandering train of thought. "..Mm. There are those in the world who have done well. They have done good work, those who have no more time left. A butterfly whose wings will never beat again. A spider whose web was in the wrong place. They are beautiful, but there is nothing left for them. But that we, those left behind, must necessarily find them. And.."
He doesn't even have to say it.
"..they will thank us in the end."
The boy opens his eyes, slowly.
And then the pain stops.
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
-And if you aren't...-
"Who am I?"
Gwen hesitates on this rhetorical, meandering question, miming it with an unsure tone. She knows who she is. But what about the other parts? The parts that vibrate like a violin's strings, that creak as the tuning peg is turned just so, for the proper note?
-her fertile craft-
There was a hole there, that Gwen never realized she had. Vague recollections of the shape of a face, a fluttering curtain, things that are hard to tell which were simply the deposits of an older child filling in blanks, or inserting vivid scenes from a book she enjoyed. They suggest the general idea of a person that existed, once, but was burned away by pain and trauma. She never looked back at this void because there was someone else, that was there, at that critical point in time. Someone that became a concept, that could have been several someones, or just one.
But now, there is only.... who?
A crippling note, something shifted, like wind chimes, a chaotic clatter of pure notes, destroying the illusion of still metal with the slightest gust of wind.
Gwen winces, the softest exhale escaping between clenched teeth, as she falls down to one knee. It does not incapacitate her, being well within the full range of pain she's endured.
After all, isn't it just a song? A beautiful song. A song for those left behind.
And now, from that position, the redhead reaches out her hand again, in order to lend the warm from her pain towards him. Like the gentle touch of a sister to a lonely child, providing kinship.
This is Gwen, or, perhaps, the most fatal part of Gwen: her heart, the metaphorical one, one of the deadliest trait to have in the harshest corners of the Badlands. It's that kind seed that was planted long ago, stripped down, disconnected from its source. The parts of Gwen that would have objected, that would have held on, the images and memories and words that would have been offered up-
Nothing matters right now but the song.
"... No one needs to be alone."
That beautiful, deadly seed.
"No one needs to suffer."