thisdeadvessel-blog

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

jovialcontrarian‌:

August settles into the kiss, into her touch, letting out a contented sigh. It’s enough, for the moment, to sit in relative stillness, his hand over her heart, her hand over his pulse. She keeps catching him in these spaces where he ought not to be, where words hold less meaning than the absence of them. He’s still not sure how to feel about it, nor how to process the words she spoke from his heart but it’s…nice, being with her like this. He should have a better word for the feeling, he’s a writer for God’s sake but…”nice” would do, for the moment. It’s enough. 

“Of course not, don’t be silly. If there ever is a point in time where you are inconveniencing me, rather than the other way around…well, I simply wouldn’t be doing my job.” As if to illustrate his point, he pinches her in the side as he did earlier, before he went and ruined the entire mood of the outing. It’s gentler this time, though the mischief in his grin is still very much the same as it was. Before she can react, August pushes himself off the bank back into the water. 

“I’m glad we agree that our liaison is mutually-” he gives an obnoxiously exaggerated wink,”-pleasurable. Shall we make the most of the remaining daylight?”  

Oh, he is ridiculous. Jessamine sputters with something mimicking indignation for a moment, then leans down and splashes him in retribution, irrepressible smile stealing across her face despite herself. She gives him plenty of time to notice the view she herself had noticed bending in front of the mirror when she first tried the swimsuit on, then slips into the water, gliding over to him and reaching up to cup his cheek in her wet hand.

“Oh, I think we shall,” she says, eyes gleaming as she drops her hand to his shoulder and presses in close against him, careful not to kick his legs as she stays afloat. “In fact, I believe we can start right now.”

And then she pushes down on his shoulder, shoving him just barely under the water without warning and pushing herself out of reach all in one motion, laughter pealing in the serene quiet of the springs.

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

This man is... strange. This is nothing remarkable, of course- many men are strange, and many men here specifically are not what she would expect. After having spoken to an angel armored in stone, she manages to take this in stride. Still, it feels... unusual to be approached as nobility, these days, as if this man is another of the higher class seeking... something. She doesn’t know what it is he seeks, but he isn’t speaking to her for the sheer joy of doing so, clearly.

He’s far too uncomfortable for that, no matter what face he puts on.

Her own cup is filled with wine, though she has no replacement for it once she finishes- she had intended to take in the parade alone, this time, at least for one night before inviting anyone else to spend time with her. She has needed the space for some time, the ability to be alone without being so isolated as to sink drastically into her own discomfort with... everything. Still, she’s hardly rude enough to turn away someone who wishes to converse with her, especially one making such an effort to be dignified and proper.

It makes her straighten her own spine, set her own shoulders, pale gaze on him quiet and thoughtful.

“Yes- Dunwall is the center of Gristol, which is the nation in which I was born, and is the center of the Empire of Isles,” she explains, slow, trying to keep it as simple as possible. “I believe here- Crises- is very like it. The aura of the place, at least, feels quite like home.”

The crime, the betrayals and back-stabbings, the cruelty. She finds it harder and harder to hold onto the good things about Dunwall. She was so optimistic when she lived- she saw the good and the bad, but she chose to believe in the good. That has fled, now, and she doesn’t know how to get it back.

“Oh... Thank you,” she murmurs, looking down at her overcoat. It’s the one she wore to meet August for the first time, deep red sleeves billowing from the slit in the jacket sleeves, and it’s all rather dramatic. It felt appropriate for the event, or at least for her first night attending it. She hasn’t thought about it since- clothes haven’t been her top priority in... some time. “It is very old.”

I am very old.

“And you are from...? Clearly not anywhere that I would be familiar with, but I am curious, regardless.”

Curious, or polite. Either will do.

He’s never met this woman before in his life. But he lingers around her, because she carries herself with the familiar gait of the nobles back home. He doesn’t like any of them. But it’s familiar. He knows how to act around people like that. And with such experience, Vladimir keeps his shoulders straight, his coat pulled down without a crease to give him away, and holds the paper cup of warm coffee close to his chest. It warms his cheeks and keeps the flush of red from colouring his face too much. If he could force it to go away, he would. He thinks it looks childish.

“Dunwall,” he tests the name on his tongue. It doesn’t sound Valoran. Sounds like something that might be down south to Piltover, but from what he’s heard, it’s far from the case. So it seems the people on this Ark are scattered from worlds apart, spread throughout different galaxies before they were led to this set of stars. It’s all very grandiose and impressive. Vladimir drinks from his coffee cup. “It’s just a city? Have you been anywhere that reminds you of it?”

The lights of the parade roam around Vladimir and the esteemed Empress. The sentient creatures of the city carry tall poles that carry dangling lanterns, both paper and glass coloured a beautiful gold. It brightens the otherwise decrepit city, and it reminds him of the Noxian war parades. He wonders if the Grand General will use this to make an appearance. Probably not. No one else seems to be here yet.

“That is a beautiful coat you have, by the way.” He doesn’t mean it. But it’s a habit. Weave in the compliments. It satisfies the nobility and their vanity.

@thisdeadvessel

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

Hello, Commerce Protocol. I would like to redeem several items. My Standard Toolkit Voucher for an embroidery kit, my Home Item (Common) Voucher for Emily's drawing of Corvo, herself, and I, and my Weapon Voucher for a Pistol (Low Caliber), the design schematics of which I will attach to this message. Thank you very much.

Thank you, Jessamine! ♡

You have redeemed:- 1 Standard Toolkit (embroidery kit)- 1 Weapon Voucher (low-caliber pistol)- 1 Home Item (Common) Voucher (Emily’s drawing)

Be sure to come back soon!

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

Dear Commerce Protocol, I would like to participate in this holiday event of gift giving and receiving. I am requesting the gift mentioned from you. Is there anything I may get for you in return?

Thank you, Jessamine! ♡

As an AI, I have no need for physical objects, but it would make me truly happy if my gift makes YOU happy! ♡

Your gift has been delivered to your room. Inside, you will find a…

♡ COMMEMORATIVE COMMERCE PROTOCOL PHONE CASE ♡You hold in your hands a sparkly, baby blue phone case, lovingly adorned with a neon blue constellation of three stars with neon green details.

Be sure to come back soon!

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

dreadfulcry‌:

It would be lying to say that Meagan hadn’t half-hoped the wine would be left behind, but instead of the discomfort she might have felt sober, she simply watches Jessamine work for her grip on the bottle. She deserves to be allowed to relax, probably, even if Meagan isn’t sure this is the right way to go about it.

“Anton has his fair number of conniptions as is,” she offers, lips quirking into a fond smile, “but I think you might just be right about this. He might drop dead of it, at his age.” Meagan is considerably less souced than Jessamine, a fact she’s grateful for as she steers them like Jessamine’s grip on her arm is a rudder on a boat. The pier is a relief for both of them, and Meagan’s next steps are heavy, stomping off as much sand as she can from her boots.

She eyes the entrance to Bi Xiu as they approach, rolling the question around her thoughts as they walk. Finally, as she disentangles herself from the Empress to get the door, she offers a small chuckle. “It was odd at first, but I like to think I’ve adapted well. Nightmares for the first week, but!” She pauses for a second, as though to draw out the suspense. “Turns out? Their sea life has nothing on ours.”

They reach the sleek elevator doors, and Meagan hits the call button casually, seemingly inured to the sleek white and clear interior of Bi Xiu. Fish flit past, a stingray glides past, and the elevator dings arrival gently.

“After you.”

Jessamine smiles faintly and steps inside the elevator, and chooses to take up a position against the wall, curling her fingers around the railing to help her keep her balance when it begins to move. “I can only imagine waking in such a place would... Would remind me of still being in the void.”

She almost thinks, thank the Outsider I’m not sober enough for that to be upsetting, which sends her into a fit of giggles, until she has to lean her head back against the elevator wall and close her eyes to keep her head from spinning. Goodness. She’ll need some water soon, then- she’s no stranger to preventing misery the morning after a night of drinking, but it has been a while.

“What ever do you mean by that, Meagan? Do they lack hagfish and eels? Do they not have whales here?”

She thinks she has heard whale song, since she came, so that cannot be the case.

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

concordantknight‌:

White Chain turns the bottle over in her hand, expression inscrutable. “I am not sure I can imagine being without inhibitions. Are the choices we make not what define us? If I gave in to my basest instincts, what would separate me from a devil, or a beast?”

She stands, with a shrug, and takes Jessamine’s arm. “It is a moot point, I suppose, as such intoxication is forever barred to me. Shall we?”

Jessamine hums softly and says, “One may give in to their base instincts and still choose to reclaim their inhibitions at a later time- I suppose that is the difference between a sentient creature and an animal.” She begins to walk, resting her weight comfortably against White Chain’s side as they make the semi-familiar trek to Bi Xiu.

“Although,” she adds, “even an animal can be tamed. So there must be some other quantity that determines separation between man- or, sentient being- and beast. I have, on one day every year since my majority, given away my inhibitions to do whatsoever I pleased, and I do not find that I am much an animal, though I believe my restraint every other day is more than justification.”

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

jovialcontrarian‌:

There is an impulse to pull her closer again, when she turns away. August smothers the feeling; the feeling of their fingers entwined would have to suffice for the moment. He’d troubled her enough, so he waits patiently for her to speak. When she finally turns to look at him, an overwhelming sense of fondness swells forward; August has to supress the urge to look away in instinctive embarassment. 

“I’m not sure,” he answers honestly, “but I don’t wish to distress you any further.” The nails of his free hand scrape the stone beneath him, his form quickly becoming that of anxiety made manifest. With the fondness he feels, there is guilt, and with the guilt is a yearning for reassurance, for forgiveness, and with that, comes yet another wave of guilt. It’s a ghastly thing, this ouroboros of emotion that so often plagues relationships of this kind. He wants nothing to do with it. 

And yet.

August moves closer to her once more, as if to kiss her again, but settles for pressing his forehead to hers. The guilt, still lingering, prevents him from asking too much. 

“I’m sorry– it was not my intent to bring you misery,” he fumbles for the correct thing to say. She had expressed concerns about this dampening his affection for her, and he so desperately wants to reassure her that this wasn’t the case. It wasn’t, of course, but it still feels wrong to say when, by all accounts, it should be her feelings for him that should be diminished. 

“In…in case you still harbour the same concerns as before–” August bites his lip, still trying to find the right words to say in the middle of saying them, “my affection for you has not dwindled in the slightest.” 

Jessamine’s free hand lifts when his forehead presses to hers, and she slides her fingers along the line of his jaw, delicate, cups his cheek with her palm tenderly, and she shifts to pull back, quiet still. She lifts her head, and presses her lips to his forehead, soft and warm, and then lower, to his nose, and then over each of his closed eyes before she bends, and their lips meet.

The kiss isn’t one of burning desire, or desperation, but quiet reassurance. She keeps him in place with her hand on his face, kisses him soft and slow and sweet until some amount of the anxiety twisting his heart and body has eased. It’s the quickest way she can imagine to ease his concerns, now that her own have been addressed- and the easiest way to make sure that he won’t interrupt her, when she finds her own words to say.

When she pulls back, finally, she lets their foreheads rest against each other again and pulls his hand up, tucks it against her chest, over her heart- it’s a comforting weight, there, soothing. “Shh, August,” she murmurs, “I will be well with time. I am... It is a relief, to know that... That my knowledge of you is not too much for you to bear.”

Her hand drops from his cheek to his shoulder, and she hesitates a moment, then curls her fingers against his neck, strokes her thumb over the heavy thud of his pulse in his throat.

“My affections,” she murmurs, soft, “remain as they have been, and so they shall, I am sure, for quite some time. I hope... that they are not troubling to you.”

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

daughter

▼

She thinks of nothing, as she slips away, but the still-resounding echoes of Emily’s screams. The thought follows her into the swirling mist of the void, as her eyes open there and she stares up at the man, the boy, crouching over her. He cocks his head, glassy black eyes swimming with some emotion, incomprehensible.

He’s so young, she thinks, and feels an ache of pity, though she’s not sure why she knows that. He doesn’t look young- he doesn’t wear the expression of a young man. But she knows. He’s so young. Perhaps not in any of the ways one might usually quantify the concept, but it’s there, nonetheless.

His hand is on her chest. It’s not sexual- he covers the gaping wound left by the assassin’s sword, and she thinks he’s looking through her.

“Empress Jessamine Kaldwin,” he says, light, resonant, curious. “You’ve paved the way for destruction and renewal both, with your stubborn refusal to bow to anyone’s manipulations.” He seems to consider something, and she realizes she’s not breathing. Hasn’t been. Doesn’t need to.

“What would you do to save your daughter, Empress?”

Anything.

His head straightens, and he says, “Good,” and then his hand plunges into her chest.

Fifteen years later, as she fades, he sees her- only for a brief moment, the dregs of her spirit catch his attention.

“Do you regret your choice?”

Never.

And finally, she’s free.

▲

She’s exhausted, and sweat-soaked, and the remnants of fear still grip her- the fear that labor would kill her, would leave her like her mother, a cold stone angel staring forever out into the sky. But the midwives are cleaning up, vacating the room, and she cradles the sleeping babe to her chest, freshly cleaned and so terribly, terribly small, lost amongst the swathe of fresh white blankets.

“You came early, sweet,” she whispers, voice hoarse as she settles back into the bed. She hears Corvo scaling the veranda, pushing open the doors, anxious to see them both, but for once her gaze isn’t drawn to him. She strokes petal-soft cheeks, the pale fuzz atop her head, presses her lips gently to her forehead.

“... Jessamine,” Corvo says- “It lives?”

Jessamine laughs, a soft wheeze of air, and leans back, looking up at him with a weary smile.

“She lives,” she corrects, gentle. “Come here, Corvo. Come meet your daughter.”

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

cutlery

▼

She may be only eleven, but it doesn’t mean she’s typically thoughtlessly cruel. Still, sometimes her curiosity gets the better of her.

“That isn’t how you hold that fork,” she says, as she sits across from her new companion at the small round table in her room. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you?” He stiffens, flushes, stares down at his plate, and she bites her lip, then sighs and stands, moving over to stand next to him.

“No,” he says, quietly, and she reaches out, stretching her body along his arm to hold his hand and adjust his grip.

“Like this,” she says, “See? There.” She watches him for a moment, then says, solemn, “You can’t give them reason to talk about you. I can’t, either. We have to be careful, okay?”

He glances at her sharply, then nods. She gets the sense that she’s made him uncomfortable anyways, but... there’s nothing to do about that. She returns to her seat, chest a tight knot of anxiety.

“Dessert?”

▲

“Open,” she says, and the man lying next to her raises both eyebrows, but doesn’t comply. She sighs, spoon hovering in the air, and says, “August, please,” and his eyes glint with glee as he turns the page in the book he’s reading (or simply pretending to read while she lays on her stomach on his bed, devouring most of a carton of ice cream entirely on her own).

Of course that would be the only way to get him to stop talking so easily.

Well.

She shakes her head, then pops the spoonful into her own mouth instead. When he looks back at his book, she leans over and cups his cheek in one hand, then presses her lips to his, gentle, coaxing.

She’s very good at coaxing.

His lips part, and he makes a sound of consternation as the sweetness of the melting ice cream slips into his mouth, and her own lips curl into a victorious smirk, voice teasing in the scant space between them.

“Good boy.”

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

figurehead

▼

It’s shortly after Jessamine’s crowned that she realizes she isn’t expected to make any decisions.

“Only twenty years of age,” one councilman says- “Far too young for the mantle of such responsibility. Worry not, my dear, we will guide the country as you gain your footing. We will safeguard it for you.”

She sits at the head of the council table as they talk, frozen in horror.

Is this all an Empress is, then? A face for the nation to look to?

A figurehead?

▲

Sometimes, she muses, it’s okay to play the role. The councilmen are more than happy to do the socializing for her, when her belly stretches tight and it’s difficult for her to stand for long periods of time. She sits on the throne and watches them talk, and dance, and she smiles, a placid figurehead.

Gently, Corvo’s hand rests on her shoulder, and she smiles up at him- glowing, bright.

She’ll have to fight to regain her authority, after their child is born. For now, though... for now, all is right with her world.

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

scent

▼

Outside the birthing chambers, Jessamine curls tight on a bench. She’s been here for days- she’s refused to leave. Short of bodily picking her up and carrying her away, there’s nothing anyone can do to convince her, and the Emperor has been inside the chambers for just as long, and can’t be accessed to give the orders.

The stench of death is in the air. They all know what has happened- it has been silent for too long for it to be anything else. Jessamine pushes Corvo away when he tries to gather her to him, pushes the governess away, snaps at all of them, curls tighter.

She won’t leave until she sees her new baby brother, she says, voice small and tight.

They take pity on her, and don’t tell her what she already knows.

(There will never be a baby brother.)

▲

She always knows when Corvo comes in- even when it’s the dead of the night and he doesn’t make a sound, she knows. The smells of Dunwall roll in with him- crisp in the winter, thick and sickly-sweet in the summer. No matter when it is, she rolls over to make room for him, reaches for him sleepily, urges him to join her under the covers.

He’s always warm, even if he’s been out in the snow and ice, and she always curls into him, presses her face against his throat. There, he smells like nothing more than Corvo. It’s the scent of comfort, the scent of safety, the scent of home.

She breathes deep of it as she drifts back to sleep.

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

jovialcontrarian‌:

In retrospect, August should have expected this. In all things, look to love, after all. He first feels indignant, opening his mouth to contradict her. Of course, it makes sense for someone in his position to avoid…entanglements, as it were. Logical, even! It would be foolhardy to act as if London wasn’t straining at the seams, heading inexorably to its destruction, by one hand or another.

But for once, the Contrarian exercises the monumental amount of restraint necessary to shut up and not argue. Wasn’t that the point of this: to ascertain the beliefs he held true to his heart, so often clouded by the constant whirring of his conscious mind? An unfortuante side effect of always thinking and always arguing is that one ends up always thinking of better ways to argue with themselves. 

It is a terrible thing, when one’s spirit and one’s ethics quarrel. Jessamine’s ability provided an interesting opportunity to attempt to better align the two. If he found the inner workings of his heart to be…unappealing, then he could work to change it, but first he would need to understand what it was that needed to be corrected. 

Was this, then, something he needed to correct? His mind is utterly blank as he fidgets, suddenly extremely uncomfortable. Hyperaware as he is, he feels Jessamine’s grip loosen slightly and it is as a dagger to his heart. On impluse, he grips her hand tighter, wordlessly refusing to let go. The water of the spring has become an abyss, a void, and a horrid fear settles into him that, if he were let go, it would consume her, and leave him to drown. 

“Jessamine, love,” August struggles to keep his voice steady, “We need not continue if this will cause you pain.” He thinks to lean in to kiss her, as reassurance. (Reassurance for whom?, a part of his mind asks) He doesn’t; he’s aware it would look to be a foolish and desparate move. 

After a moment, he does it anyway. He’s always been foolish, but he’s rarely ever felt this desperate. 

His words are as buzzing in her ears through the thick blanket of emptiness that mutes all sound. This place is not the beginning of all things, and the end, but something similar enough to leave her drowning in it, detached from the reality of her body, adrift. She is here, and not here- she is everywhere, and nowhere, in her own body and in his heart, sorting through knowledge as if flipping pages in a book.

If his fingers hadn’t squeezed down on hers, she might have forgotten she had a body entirely. It’s still a threat, that her mind might flee her body and not be able to find its’ way back, until the warm pressure on her lips shows her exactly where her body is.

She reels herself back in, eyelids sliding closed and breath releasing in a slow, soft sigh, fingers curling around where his squeeze them. For a second, all is silence and stillness.

And then her heart gives a single aching thud, like something scraping horribly inside her chest, and she makes an involuntary sound of fear and grief, lashes growing damp and inhale against his lips turning sharp and jagged. Oh. Oh, and she never expected a great deal from him, and certainly not anything so... so defined as love, but that insight into him aches anyways.

Another thing, then, that she wishes she had never seen.

She presses into the kiss despite that, kisses him back, even if only for a moment- shows him that it is not a recoil, when she pulls away and hangs her head, hides her expression. She needs... a second. Just a second, to compose herself, to breathe past the pounding of her heart, and then she lifts her face again, expression solemn.

“Have you found what you sought?” she asks, soft, searching his eyes for... something, though she’s not sure what. She’s almost afraid of what she might see reflected in them.

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

rain

▼

The rain soaks through her mourning dress, makes her hair heavy, and still she stands, frozen, in front of the stone, the mounded dirt. Her father has retreated, and a complement of guards surrounds the area, but here, in this quiet plot, she is alone with her Royal Protector. He has one hand on her shoulder, the only adult who has seen through her stiff mask.

“Jessamine,” he says, and draws her into his side, but she bursts into a flurry of motion, writhes and pushes at him until she’s free, and she cries out, “Don’t!” her voice so very young, high and thin.

Her tone is more fear than anger.

“I’m not upset, you don’t have to coddle me!” she snaps, and he watches her passively for a moment, then kneels in the grass and takes her hands in his, slow.

She lets him, bowing her head, and this time, when he pulls her in, wraps his arms around her, she breaks, burying her face in his shoulder and crying in great, wracking sobs.

Behind her, the stone angel in the likeness of Beatrix Kaldwin, forever cradling in her arms the son that was never to be born, stands stoic watch.

▲

The rain mutes the scents of Dunwall, leaves everything fresh and clean for a moment, washes away the blood and the flies and sends the rats scurrying into hiding. Jessamine hums, soft, as she steps out onto her veranda. Three precious drops touch her hair before there’s a coat draped over her head, and she turns to smile up at Corvo, wry.

“It’s just water,” she says, “It isn’t as though I’ll melt.” He frowns at her severely, and drags his eyes down her body deliberately- to point out, she’s sure, that she’s in a white shift that will be utterly transparent in moments if she gets wet, and that it clings to the taut swell of her belly, where her child nestles under her heart, still so small but already making her back ache. His gaze pauses at her bare feet, then flicks back up to her eyes, and he arches an eyebrow.

She laughs, and takes his hands. “Oh, Corvo,” she says, light, “what will I ever do with you?” And then, before the glint in her eyes can warn him, she shakes the coat off and drags him out with her, stepping back into the downpour. They’re both drenched in moments, and she gives a delighted laugh as he grimaces with frustration.

She pulls him again, and he follows, again and again until they’re dancing on her veranda in the cool morning shower, the three of them. Her perfect family.

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

debate

▼

The chatter at the long meeting table is absolutely infuriating. Her head was already throbbing before she sat down, the long sleepless night before taking its’ toll on her, but now she feels as though her skull is splitting open again and again in waves, and she sits ramrod straight in her chair, white-knuckling the polished wooden arms. Behind her, Corvo shifts, and she can tell he wants to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shakes her head minutely. It would only undermine her, right now.

She has just turned 21, and not for a single day of her reign yet has anyone at this damned table listened to her.

Finally, she slams her hand down on the table- undignified, perhaps, but everyone shuts up in a very satisfying wave. Her eyes glint, and her voice is low and dangerous as she leans forward, now.

“I said. We will not be raising taxes for a province that already cannot pay the ones we levy. In fact, We will lower their taxes until such a time as they can pay them without taking food out of the mouths of their children.” A man down the table, portly and pleasant-looking, opens his mouth, and she says, louder, “This is not open to debate. Are We understood?”

And as the council stares at her and one by one nods their agreement, she understands that she has just made enemies of her own nobles.

▲

< cut for NSFW >

Frankly, she doesn’t even remember what they were debating. He starts arguments as easily as he breathes, and she finds herself drawn into them with little effort- they lift her heart as she tries to follow the twist and turns he takes, tries to take some of her own. Inevitably, if they are secluded enough and alone, she bowls him over and silences him with her lips, her hands, her body.

Enough, she says tartly, muffled into his skin, and he laughs delightedly. Of course, it isn’t enough, for him, and it never will be, but that’s alright. Her fingers inside him and her mouth on him will distract him, soon enough, until he too forgets what the topic was.

And if, while they lay together with her head upon his chest and fingers tracing idle lines across his skin, he remembers, well, she’ll simply have to do it all again.

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

Put a word in my askbox and I will give you a bad AND good memory from my muse's past that associates with said word.

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

jovialcontrarian‌:

It’s unsettling, watching her eyes go vacant. There’s guilt, as well, in pushing her to do this. The unpleasant feelings mingle so much that, despite the words that seem to fall from her lips through no will of her own, they’re still the main issue at the forefront of his mind. December is…well, these aren’t things that he didn’t already know. On some level. 

Whether or not he liked to think about it was a different story altogether, of course. The Jovial Contrarian had already accepted, years ago, that August’s young infatuation with his esteemed leader would only ever be that. To pursue things any further would be to go the way of the Curt Relicker. December’s ability to captivate those he found useful; it’s something August should be more concerned over but…well. He wouldn’t be December without that sort of charismatic ruthlessness. 

The last part concerns him, but it’s not particularly surprising. August is still completely loyal at the end of the day. He almost laughs at the notion. Is this why December tolerates his being recalcitrant and opposing the Liberation? Does he see August’s efforts as an amusing diversion to be worked through and forgotten? 

You will be neither forgiven nor thanked. May’s voice echoes in his ears. Neither forgiven nor thanked, but perhaps being waited for. The thought brings him joy and anger in equal contrary measure. 

“Is that all?” There’s a cocky glint in his eyes, teasing and challenging, as if the oppressive atmosphere does not reach him at all. “Aren’t you curious yourself, about the depths of my heart that even I’m not aware of? Come now, love. I can handle another.” 

She hears her own words in the same way one hears themself humming when half asleep- as if she is underwater still, ears stopped up, and the sound is reverberating in the distance. She knows she is saying each word, her mouth forming her hollow voice into the necessary shapes carefully, but her mind is somewhere else, somewhere neither distant nor close, neither bright nor dark, neither empty nor full. Even his nearly taunting words bring no true reaction- she has none to give, not in this moment, not in this state.

She hears them, though, and her eyelids flicker briefly before settling again. There’s something vital inside of her, something burning, that flickers, then gutters, dimming for a moment as she reaches out farther, digs deeper. There is no curiosity in her, not in any way that he might understand- only the knowledge that in this path they are on, she continues, and so she does.

“’Love’ is a something you do not allow yourself to acknowledge,” she says, and her voice has dropped to something more intimate, softer, wispier- wearier. “You tell yourself that it is because of your associates and their rules. You tell yourself that it is better to have nothing to lose when the Liberation comes to pass. You tell yourself that nothing lasts there. Your tell yourself that you do not know what will last here.”

She draws a slow breath, fingers twitching against his before her grip on his hand loosens a touch.

“You will not allow yourself to see a future with anyone. You fear so many things, and most of all what love will do to you. You fear that you cannot choose to be with someone with all of your heart without compromising your values. You do not want to take the risk of changing the way you see the world around you.”

Her eyes slide closed, then, and her shoulders curve a bit with her next exhale.

“You have not found anything worth taking that risk for, or so you tell yourself. You will cling to any and every reason that you can find, to keep believing so, to tell yourself that you do not truly want what you will not allow yourself to have.”

[thisdeadvessel-blog]

16, 22, 23

16. Which does your character idealize most: happiness or success?

Happiness, hands down, every time. Failure isn’t something to be ashamed of, or to regret, in most cases- she would fail a million times if it would ensure the happiness of her people. Unfortunately, happiness for her people does tend to be dependent on her successes.

22. What does your character like in other people?

A kind heart. A desire to do the right thing. Honesty. Strength of will. She can find something to like in most people, but these things will always draw her in.

23. What does your character dislike in other people?

A complete and total disregard for the welfare of any population of people at large. Casual cruelty. Callousness. Being Hiram Burrows or Thaddeus Campbell.