[Or in half an hour, as it takes him that long to figure out exactly where Pratt is, then work up the nerve to actually face him after he literally fled from their previous conversation. He looks just a pinch sheepish as he makes his way over, and entirely uncomfortable: his arms are folded, his fingers fiddling with the fabric of his jacket. It's a nervous habit Pratt no doubt saw many times, and one that has lingered even in death.
He clears his throat, getting right to it.]
You have my sincerest apologies, Deputy. Running from my discomfort is unbecoming of me, whether you know me or not... and apparently, you do.
[He turns to face Carlisle with a nervous habit of his own: running his fingers through his hair.]
I mean... I dunno what the proper response is to finding out you met people you don't remember.
[It's likely NOT running away, but that's what Pratt would do so he can't judge too harshly.]
I'm gonna apologize in advance for the fucked up thing I'm gonna say right now: I'm glad you're here. That's sorta selfish of me since you're here and not home but.. it is what it is.
[Carlisle would be angry about that confession -- he should be angry, has been angry at the very thought of being trapped here. However, he swallows any immediate bitterness, desperately wanting to do better than their initial conversation. His vile temper, worsened by his very nature as a Revenant -- no, former Revenant -- cannot be allowed to consume him again. He's afraid he may lose what little he has left if it does.
Besides that, he can almost understand why Pratt would say something like that, assuming what he said before is true: Carlisle knows he'd be reluctant to lose a friend, too, and happy to have them returned. They are such a precious commodity to an isolated, accursed man like himself, both in life and in death. Given what happened to Bear Den, he can't say for certain he has any now, which is just as well, but... he cannot ignore that pang of longing for a connection of any kind.
He has one before him. Better get started.]
I have no home to return to.
[Not exactly how he meant to start out, but he meets Pratt's admission with one of his own, only to be a little embarrassed by his bluntness. He attempts to justify it:]
I- what I mean is that perhaps I... hm. I am not certain of the reasons I was brought here, reunited with people who knew me, but am unable to recall in any capacity. I hope it is to give me a chance to do better. I like to think things happen for a reason, and that I have purpose.
[It's a simple sentence, but the meaning behind it is clear: either Bear Den is no more, or Carlisle can't go back. He's not sure it matters which one it is as the end result is the same. ]
To atone for the things you've done in your past. I completely understand.
[Oh now he's smiling, this reminds him of the first time they'd spoken; two kindred spirits who both hated themselves and who they were and wanted only to make things better. As if Hadriel would be a second chance. Well Pratt was getting a third chance here in Anchor, and Carlisle was on chance two since he'd forgotten the other.]
[It sounds exactly like him, so said by someone who knew him when he was apparently alive and well -- and happy, if his grin Poison captured in her sketches is to be believed. Something in that sentiment gives him a modicum of hope, warm and fleeting in the cold cavern of his chest; he cannot help but smile beneath his mask as he wonders if he could possibly be that way again.
Unfortunately, he is quick to remind himself that things must have been different in Hadriel, given he had not yet risen as a Revenant. He hadn't committed the terrible atrocities of the Blight Heir; he wasn't yet truly responsible for the suffering of so many. He'd thought for so long his mere existence would bring about misfortune to the people around him, and as it turns out, he wasn't entirely wrong to believe the old superstitions and what they said of the twice-cursed. What he never considered was that his death would not free them from their potential misery.
It is a fate he hopes those in Anchor can avoid. Will he revert back to the Blight Heir, losing himself once more? Or can he get a hold on his energies before that happens? Is there even a point in trying?
He sighs to himself, having fought that rhetoric for years. He was cursed, so what was the point? Well, now he's dead, and he must find new meaning to keep moving forward. He can do no good if he stagnates; his goddess would disapprove.]
I spoke to you about atonement, I assume. And perhaps used it to justify my continued existence and a life I should not have had. That I still shouldn't have.
It was kind of a thing for us. I did a bunch of seriously fucked up stuff before I died. Well before I was dying. The death part still hasn't happened, but I'm now even closer, maybe minutes instead of hours.
[That's the kind of casual thing he would have said to old Carlisle who already knew his situation, but the words are out before he thinks about the fact that he maybe shouldn't drop the "starving to death duct taped to a chair" thing on this new Carlisle in their second conversation.]
You definitely should have it. Not that it matters, the choice was taken out of our hands and we just have to live with the consequences. Don't go turning into me: mopey and pessimistic and depressed.
[Carlisle chuckles -- it's an actual laugh, one a bit on the dry end that sounds as though it hasn't been used it a hundred years, but it's genuine.]
I believe you may be too late to save me from a pessimistic life of brooding depression, but... you are right. My agency has been stripped from me more than once, before I was drawn here, and I lived my entire life with the consequences. I only hope living with them now is preferable to the alternative.
[Can an undead die again? Will he just keep rising as a Revenant until permanently excised from this plane? These are questions he feels he should know the answer to, but he can't even recall meeting Pratt, so there is no telling what else is lost to him.]
I tried. We're bad for each other. We're like a depressing blackhole that sucks everyone in.
[Though they also do have a knack for talking each other out of those depressive spirals of doom and gloom. Really they're great for each other because they both know the depths they can sink to and how bad it can get.]
I don't think I understand. Agency stripped?
[That sounds vaguely familiar. What was it that Carlisle had said, something about being twice cursed and when he died something terrible would happen. That he would still have all his powers but not be himself, his soul shattered and only part of it remaining.]
[So much for that brief moment of humor. Carlisle's expression falters, and no matter how impassive he tries to appear, he cannot hide the shame that etches into his brow. It, unlike him, is undying.
His eyes affix themselves on the ground as he swallows the knot in his throat, wondering how long it's been festering there. Since his 'revival,' at least -- it's choked him, kept him from admitting the truth he has long known. Carlisle could not bring himself to believe the last annuls of the Chronicler of Bear Den, who wrote pages upon pages about the Blight Heir and who he used to be; he refused to comprehend the sight of his home in ruins, the evidence of his vile transformation all around him in the form of the undead. No one believed the heir of Longinmouth, the failure of his bloodline, would be the damnation of all around him.
But to hear it so plainly from someone who knew him -- who proves he knew him more and more each second, and has even given him a second chance to explain himself after running from the truth like the coward he is -- cuts Carlisle anew, leaving a wound he's not sure he can close. He doesn't want to admit it aloud, making it all the more real, but he does a disservice to the dead if he continues to do that. He is to blame for their ends. He is the one who became a monster. He doesn't want to be that monster any more.
No more running from this. Better start confessing his sins to someone who may forgive him long before he'll forgive himself.]
I... I did. I did not realize what would happen. I thought my death would be a reprieve for those around me. How wrong I was. And now I live with the consequences.
[He didn't remember the specifics, just that someone had been able to see Carlisle's future and that he'd be doomed to rise as some sort of horrific monster. They were both doomed to their fates when they were returned to their homes, but for Pratt death would be a release, for Carlisle it would be the beginning of a new stage of things to atone for.]
You called it something... There's no magic in my world so it was kinda hard for me to follow. Revived something. Revenant?
[That sounds right. Pratt licks his lips, looking elsewhere. He only knew it was awful, he didn't know the specifics of what Carlisle had become or what he had done. ]
[He knew in Hadriel. He knew. How could he have known? And why was it that such a vital, life-changing piece of information escaped him? Was it on purpose? Was his memory taken from him? Was he always damned to—
His brow wrinkles, his face scrunching with disgust. These are questions for another time, and ones Pratt doesn't likely have the answer to anyway, if the vague "somehow" is any indication. What matters is that Pratt knows more about what he is now than Carlisle himself does. That's something, though if it's good or bad, he doesn't yet know.]
I became —[his voice catches in his throat, as though admitting what happened pains him in some way -- and maybe it does, given his convictions toward the undead]— I became what is known as a Revenant. Or... at least I thought I did. But if I knew there, and I told you enough to recall a word you are not even familiar with, then- then that must be it.
[He wrings his fingers; his legs feel weak beneath him, and he takes a seat on the ground, grateful the grass hasn't wilted beneath him yet.]
I could not be sure. I did not 'fix' anything. I just... woke up one day, and the world had changed around me. My town was gone, infested with the undead, all because of the Blight Heir.
[Oh. This is apparently a lot for Carlisle if him sinking to the grass is any indication. He really had lost a lot after Hadriel, not only the memories of those he'd befriended and the progress he'd made to self-acceptance, but the knowledge of what was to come and preparation for such. Not that there would be anything to do to really prevent dying eventually, but maybe he could have put something into place for those around him to not be hurt.
Pratt didn't truly understand, there were monsters in his world, and people who lost themselves to the Bliss and basically became zombies. But nothing like what Carlisle had described. Twice-cursed. Blight Heir. They're words that speak of a true atrocity, but without the context Pratt is at a loss to fully comprehend the horror. ]
Well if you woke up then something changed. How long has it been since you 'woke up' and coming here? Do you know what happened?
[ He feels a little weird talking to someone on the ground while he's standing, it reminds him a bit of having drunk drivers in handcuffs. ]
I —[he swallows hard, as swallowing is difficult for someone with a throat ruined from the constant expulsion of ink]— I know but bits and pieces of what happened, recorded by the final annuls of the town chronicler. I was only awake for two days, maybe three before being brought here. I used that time to adjust to my new surroundings, only to realize they were my old ones, now vastly changed. Ravaged.
[He closes his eyes, the glow of them barely visible through the cracks.]
I'd sequestered myself in my house the last year of my life. My- my grasp over my energies was slipping, and rather than endanger anyone, I thought it best if I remained in my estate. It would be safer for everyone if I remained apart from them.
[He fumbles through his satchel, pulling out a long, leatherbound book.]
I do not know why I awakened, or why exactly it is I arose as- as this vile thing, but I know now that I was wrong. I was wrong, and I have so much to atone for. How can I do that here? And what happens if—
[Okay. That's.. that's a lot. So Carlisle didn't have memories not only of his time in Hadriel but of what he had done after he'd died. Were those things related in some way?]
A lot of time has passed for you then. I went home and almost immediately came back here. Maybe minutes in my world.
[Though he's barely conscious so he can't be too sure. ]
Alright hold on, one thing at a time. So you became some.. sort of monster and you don't remember any of it? Then woke up like you are now and were fine?
You told me once that even if you can't atone to the people you hurt, it still counts. It matters to someone. I think you said something about your goddess taking notice. So there's that.
Can my goddess even hear me here, in another world? Does she care for me now that—
[He pushes out a sigh, curbing his temper. He can practically feel the necrotic energies pouring from him; he stiffens in disgust, seeing a discolored patch of ground spreading beneath his hand.]
Does she care now that I am the antithesis of all I was? I cannot fully atone for my sins, whether I am here or at home. The people I wronged are gone now. Who here can I make a difference for when I am like this?
[he's silent for a while, because he doesn't actually know what Carlisle's powers are. Or what they had been to begin with. But he does notice the grass dying where he's touching it, which does seem contrary to everything he knows about how much he likes to garden.]
I'm sure there's something you can do. And even if God can't hear us or see us here, we know. And that's really what matters right? That's what people have told me anyway.
We can lie to ourselves and pretend we believe it, fake it til you make it I guess.
[It does help a little bit he's found.]
What if we get attacked by some horrible plant monsters? Then we'll definitely need you.
[Pratt's remark about plant monsters gets a dry chuckle from Carlisle, momentarily drawing his attention away from that ruined spot on the ground. At least there's comfort in that. There's plenty of solace to be found in his other statements, as well, something Carlisle realizes the more he considers them.
Even if the gods can't hear us, we know is nearly the tenet of self-reflection and betterment taught by his religious order. It wasn't that his goddess couldn't hear him back home, but more likely she didn't care on most days, too tired to be bothered with the problems of a single clergyman. It was a principle he applied to his home life, as well: though there were no Longinmouths left besides him, he could not stand the thought of bringing their legacy shame. They would never know what lengths he went to to preserve their honor, but he would know. He took pride in that, however little.
And in the end, it hadn't mattered at all. He continues to mull over Pratt's words.
We can lie to ourselves and pretend we believe it: that is much more like him. He did that for years, insisting his uncles would return at any minute. His need to maintain their home -- his home -- kept him going on many days where he considered giving up. He told himself he was worthy of his family's legacy, and that he merely needed to work at it -- possibly another lie, but one he held until his dying day. In the end, he had left a mark on the world... and it was a dreadful one.
Back he goes to that remark about the plant monster. Maybe that was the most comforting statement after all -- that, and the fact that, despite knowing Carlisle is a Revenant, Pratt has such faith in him, cares enough to be supportive and reassuring at all. There is something to be said for that. He's not the only one, either, as Poison had a similar reaction. One person might be a fluke, but two people who have shown concern for his well-being, despite what he has become? There's more there that he hasn't seen yet -- there has to be.
And that's enough to keep him going for now. Maybe it's another lie he has to pretend to believe, but it's something. He doesn't yet have the answers for any of his questions, but he cannot find them if he simply gives up. He must move forward to make amends for the atrocities the Blight Heir committed.]
I will do my best against them, should that happen. Maybe my goddess will not hear me or witness my deeds here, but she certainly won't if I do not try at all.
[He glances Pratt's way, mustering up a bare smile that manages to reach his eyes.]
[Pratt's own religious inclinations had never been strong, and being kidnapped by a religious cult and tortured certainly hadn't helped things. If there was a God he was pretty sure whoever they were they weren't paying attention to what was happening. Or didn't care. No amount of praying had helped the residents of Hope County, and both sides were convinced they were correct.
Pratt didn't know which one was right, and the longer he was away from Montana the less he cared. It was all bullshit as far as he was concerned. He'd never know until he died for real and found out for himself. If there even was an afterlife, now that he's been in two different realities he's not convinced of that either. Maybe he's dead and this is what happens, shuffled from place to place for eternity.
It really didn't matter though. God might be fake, but Pratt's desire to atone for what he'd done was real. And he wanted to do it for himself, not to please a deity that he wasn't sure even existed anymore. The important thing is that he tried.]
I'm returning the favor. You talked me out of a bunch of near breakdowns, even if you don't remember. We gotta look out for each other.
[Carlisle does like the offer of camaraderie, however forgotten Pratt may be. He looks down to the leather-bound tome still in his lap as he pushes a sigh through his throat, and shoves it back into his satchel. He retrieves instead his familiar journal, the same one he had in Hadriel, save for the lack of notes he took while there.]
Talking people through their troubles used to be my job, or a part of it. I suppose you knew that already. There will likely be a lot you'll have to explain to me a second time, if you do not mind.
[Perhaps they could be friends again. Pratt's friendship must have been something worthwhile in Hadriel; he cannot imagine he'd have wasted his limited time otherwise, telling the man about his condition and fears. If it was worth it then, it must be worth it now, however changed Carlisle himself may be. His real concern is if his friendship is still worth anything, given what he is.]
[Hey he actually remembers that one, the thing that Carlisle was often scribbling in, especially when Pratt had knocked it out of his hands when catching the deer spider in the forest and nearly trampled poor Carlisle.]
I'm Deputy Pratt, of the Hope County Sheriff's department. I'm from a place called Montana, though you'd never heard of it. I think we're from different worlds, not just different times. There's no magic where I come from, that's why you made me the healing rock and the one for my garden that keeps the temperature even.
I'm uh... I'm dying back home. I'm strapped to a chair in the bottom of a bunker starving. Got maybe a few hours left, but I'm not really conscious anymore so I'm not sure I'll actually know when I die.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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It's fine you don't need to apologize. I dunno how you're supposed to react to a thing you don't remember.
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This method of contact is inconvenient. Could I trouble you to meet somewhere so I can apologize in person?
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Sure. I'm upstairs sharpening some of the tools I found. Want to come up here? Or I could come to you. My arms hurt from this already.
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I will come to you, though 'upstairs' is not terribly descriptive in a place this large.
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[text] → [action]
[Or in half an hour, as it takes him that long to figure out exactly where Pratt is, then work up the nerve to actually face him after he literally fled from their previous conversation. He looks just a pinch sheepish as he makes his way over, and entirely uncomfortable: his arms are folded, his fingers fiddling with the fabric of his jacket. It's a nervous habit Pratt no doubt saw many times, and one that has lingered even in death.
He clears his throat, getting right to it.]
You have my sincerest apologies, Deputy. Running from my discomfort is unbecoming of me, whether you know me or not... and apparently, you do.
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I mean... I dunno what the proper response is to finding out you met people you don't remember.
[It's likely NOT running away, but that's what Pratt would do so he can't judge too harshly.]
I'm gonna apologize in advance for the fucked up thing I'm gonna say right now: I'm glad you're here. That's sorta selfish of me since you're here and not home but.. it is what it is.
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Besides that, he can almost understand why Pratt would say something like that, assuming what he said before is true: Carlisle knows he'd be reluctant to lose a friend, too, and happy to have them returned. They are such a precious commodity to an isolated, accursed man like himself, both in life and in death. Given what happened to Bear Den, he can't say for certain he has any now, which is just as well, but... he cannot ignore that pang of longing for a connection of any kind.
He has one before him. Better get started.]
I have no home to return to.
[Not exactly how he meant to start out, but he meets Pratt's admission with one of his own, only to be a little embarrassed by his bluntness. He attempts to justify it:]
I- what I mean is that perhaps I... hm. I am not certain of the reasons I was brought here, reunited with people who knew me, but am unable to recall in any capacity. I hope it is to give me a chance to do better. I like to think things happen for a reason, and that I have purpose.
[He rubs at his neck.]
I hope that sounds like the me you knew.
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[It's a simple sentence, but the meaning behind it is clear: either Bear Den is no more, or Carlisle can't go back. He's not sure it matters which one it is as the end result is the same. ]
To atone for the things you've done in your past. I completely understand.
[Oh now he's smiling, this reminds him of the first time they'd spoken; two kindred spirits who both hated themselves and who they were and wanted only to make things better. As if Hadriel would be a second chance. Well Pratt was getting a third chance here in Anchor, and Carlisle was on chance two since he'd forgotten the other.]
That sounds exactly like you.
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Unfortunately, he is quick to remind himself that things must have been different in Hadriel, given he had not yet risen as a Revenant. He hadn't committed the terrible atrocities of the Blight Heir; he wasn't yet truly responsible for the suffering of so many. He'd thought for so long his mere existence would bring about misfortune to the people around him, and as it turns out, he wasn't entirely wrong to believe the old superstitions and what they said of the twice-cursed. What he never considered was that his death would not free them from their potential misery.
It is a fate he hopes those in Anchor can avoid. Will he revert back to the Blight Heir, losing himself once more? Or can he get a hold on his energies before that happens? Is there even a point in trying?
He sighs to himself, having fought that rhetoric for years. He was cursed, so what was the point? Well, now he's dead, and he must find new meaning to keep moving forward. He can do no good if he stagnates; his goddess would disapprove.]
I spoke to you about atonement, I assume. And perhaps used it to justify my continued existence and a life I should not have had. That I still shouldn't have.
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[That's the kind of casual thing he would have said to old Carlisle who already knew his situation, but the words are out before he thinks about the fact that he maybe shouldn't drop the "starving to death duct taped to a chair" thing on this new Carlisle in their second conversation.]
You definitely should have it. Not that it matters, the choice was taken out of our hands and we just have to live with the consequences. Don't go turning into me: mopey and pessimistic and depressed.
No one wants that.
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I believe you may be too late to save me from a pessimistic life of brooding depression, but... you are right. My agency has been stripped from me more than once, before I was drawn here, and I lived my entire life with the consequences. I only hope living with them now is preferable to the alternative.
[Can an undead die again? Will he just keep rising as a Revenant until permanently excised from this plane? These are questions he feels he should know the answer to, but he can't even recall meeting Pratt, so there is no telling what else is lost to him.]
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[Though they also do have a knack for talking each other out of those depressive spirals of doom and gloom. Really they're great for each other because they both know the depths they can sink to and how bad it can get.]
I don't think I understand. Agency stripped?
[That sounds vaguely familiar. What was it that Carlisle had said, something about being twice cursed and when he died something terrible would happen. That he would still have all his powers but not be himself, his soul shattered and only part of it remaining.]
You died?
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His eyes affix themselves on the ground as he swallows the knot in his throat, wondering how long it's been festering there. Since his 'revival,' at least -- it's choked him, kept him from admitting the truth he has long known. Carlisle could not bring himself to believe the last annuls of the Chronicler of Bear Den, who wrote pages upon pages about the Blight Heir and who he used to be; he refused to comprehend the sight of his home in ruins, the evidence of his vile transformation all around him in the form of the undead. No one believed the heir of Longinmouth, the failure of his bloodline, would be the damnation of all around him.
But to hear it so plainly from someone who knew him -- who proves he knew him more and more each second, and has even given him a second chance to explain himself after running from the truth like the coward he is -- cuts Carlisle anew, leaving a wound he's not sure he can close. He doesn't want to admit it aloud, making it all the more real, but he does a disservice to the dead if he continues to do that. He is to blame for their ends. He is the one who became a monster. He doesn't want to be that monster any more.
No more running from this. Better start confessing his sins to someone who may forgive him long before he'll forgive himself.]
I... I did. I did not realize what would happen. I thought my death would be a reprieve for those around me. How wrong I was. And now I live with the consequences.
[Figuratively live.]
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[He didn't remember the specifics, just that someone had been able to see Carlisle's future and that he'd be doomed to rise as some sort of horrific monster. They were both doomed to their fates when they were returned to their homes, but for Pratt death would be a release, for Carlisle it would be the beginning of a new stage of things to atone for.]
You called it something... There's no magic in my world so it was kinda hard for me to follow. Revived something. Revenant?
[That sounds right. Pratt licks his lips, looking elsewhere. He only knew it was awful, he didn't know the specifics of what Carlisle had become or what he had done. ]
You seem okay now though. Did you... fix it?
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His brow wrinkles, his face scrunching with disgust. These are questions for another time, and ones Pratt doesn't likely have the answer to anyway, if the vague "somehow" is any indication. What matters is that Pratt knows more about what he is now than Carlisle himself does. That's something, though if it's good or bad, he doesn't yet know.]
I became —[his voice catches in his throat, as though admitting what happened pains him in some way -- and maybe it does, given his convictions toward the undead]— I became what is known as a Revenant. Or... at least I thought I did. But if I knew there, and I told you enough to recall a word you are not even familiar with, then- then that must be it.
[He wrings his fingers; his legs feel weak beneath him, and he takes a seat on the ground, grateful the grass hasn't wilted beneath him yet.]
I could not be sure. I did not 'fix' anything. I just... woke up one day, and the world had changed around me. My town was gone, infested with the undead, all because of the Blight Heir.
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Pratt didn't truly understand, there were monsters in his world, and people who lost themselves to the Bliss and basically became zombies. But nothing like what Carlisle had described. Twice-cursed. Blight Heir. They're words that speak of a true atrocity, but without the context Pratt is at a loss to fully comprehend the horror. ]
Well if you woke up then something changed. How long has it been since you 'woke up' and coming here? Do you know what happened?
[ He feels a little weird talking to someone on the ground while he's standing, it reminds him a bit of having drunk drivers in handcuffs. ]
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[He closes his eyes, the glow of them barely visible through the cracks.]
I'd sequestered myself in my house the last year of my life. My- my grasp over my energies was slipping, and rather than endanger anyone, I thought it best if I remained in my estate. It would be safer for everyone if I remained apart from them.
[He fumbles through his satchel, pulling out a long, leatherbound book.]
I do not know why I awakened, or why exactly it is I arose as- as this vile thing, but I know now that I was wrong. I was wrong, and I have so much to atone for. How can I do that here? And what happens if—
[Another pause, worry cutting across him.]
What happens if I do not remain this way?
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A lot of time has passed for you then. I went home and almost immediately came back here. Maybe minutes in my world.
[Though he's barely conscious so he can't be too sure. ]
Alright hold on, one thing at a time. So you became some.. sort of monster and you don't remember any of it? Then woke up like you are now and were fine?
You told me once that even if you can't atone to the people you hurt, it still counts. It matters to someone. I think you said something about your goddess taking notice. So there's that.
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[He pushes out a sigh, curbing his temper. He can practically feel the necrotic energies pouring from him; he stiffens in disgust, seeing a discolored patch of ground spreading beneath his hand.]
Does she care now that I am the antithesis of all I was? I cannot fully atone for my sins, whether I am here or at home. The people I wronged are gone now. Who here can I make a difference for when I am like this?
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I'm sure there's something you can do. And even if God can't hear us or see us here, we know. And that's really what matters right? That's what people have told me anyway.
We can lie to ourselves and pretend we believe it, fake it til you make it I guess.
[It does help a little bit he's found.]
What if we get attacked by some horrible plant monsters? Then we'll definitely need you.
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Even if the gods can't hear us, we know is nearly the tenet of self-reflection and betterment taught by his religious order. It wasn't that his goddess couldn't hear him back home, but more likely she didn't care on most days, too tired to be bothered with the problems of a single clergyman. It was a principle he applied to his home life, as well: though there were no Longinmouths left besides him, he could not stand the thought of bringing their legacy shame. They would never know what lengths he went to to preserve their honor, but he would know. He took pride in that, however little.
And in the end, it hadn't mattered at all. He continues to mull over Pratt's words.
We can lie to ourselves and pretend we believe it: that is much more like him. He did that for years, insisting his uncles would return at any minute. His need to maintain their home -- his home -- kept him going on many days where he considered giving up. He told himself he was worthy of his family's legacy, and that he merely needed to work at it -- possibly another lie, but one he held until his dying day. In the end, he had left a mark on the world... and it was a dreadful one.
Back he goes to that remark about the plant monster. Maybe that was the most comforting statement after all -- that, and the fact that, despite knowing Carlisle is a Revenant, Pratt has such faith in him, cares enough to be supportive and reassuring at all. There is something to be said for that. He's not the only one, either, as Poison had a similar reaction. One person might be a fluke, but two people who have shown concern for his well-being, despite what he has become? There's more there that he hasn't seen yet -- there has to be.
And that's enough to keep him going for now. Maybe it's another lie he has to pretend to believe, but it's something. He doesn't yet have the answers for any of his questions, but he cannot find them if he simply gives up. He must move forward to make amends for the atrocities the Blight Heir committed.]
I will do my best against them, should that happen. Maybe my goddess will not hear me or witness my deeds here, but she certainly won't if I do not try at all.
[He glances Pratt's way, mustering up a bare smile that manages to reach his eyes.]
Thank you, Deputy. Truly.
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Pratt didn't know which one was right, and the longer he was away from Montana the less he cared. It was all bullshit as far as he was concerned. He'd never know until he died for real and found out for himself. If there even was an afterlife, now that he's been in two different realities he's not convinced of that either. Maybe he's dead and this is what happens, shuffled from place to place for eternity.
It really didn't matter though. God might be fake, but Pratt's desire to atone for what he'd done was real. And he wanted to do it for himself, not to please a deity that he wasn't sure even existed anymore. The important thing is that he tried.]
I'm returning the favor. You talked me out of a bunch of near breakdowns, even if you don't remember. We gotta look out for each other.
[Cowards need to stick together.]
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Talking people through their troubles used to be my job, or a part of it. I suppose you knew that already. There will likely be a lot you'll have to explain to me a second time, if you do not mind.
[Perhaps they could be friends again. Pratt's friendship must have been something worthwhile in Hadriel; he cannot imagine he'd have wasted his limited time otherwise, telling the man about his condition and fears. If it was worth it then, it must be worth it now, however changed Carlisle himself may be. His real concern is if his friendship is still worth anything, given what he is.]
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[Hey he actually remembers that one, the thing that Carlisle was often scribbling in, especially when Pratt had knocked it out of his hands when catching the deer spider in the forest and nearly trampled poor Carlisle.]
I'm Deputy Pratt, of the Hope County Sheriff's department. I'm from a place called Montana, though you'd never heard of it. I think we're from different worlds, not just different times. There's no magic where I come from, that's why you made me the healing rock and the one for my garden that keeps the temperature even.
I'm uh... I'm dying back home. I'm strapped to a chair in the bottom of a bunker starving. Got maybe a few hours left, but I'm not really conscious anymore so I'm not sure I'll actually know when I die.
If you know when you die.
Do you?
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cw: suicidal ideation
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