[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.
[Carlisle, who had been scribbling down a few things in his journal (both ideas for enchanted rocks actually sound good, so he doubts he came up with them initially), comes to a stop at Pratt's question. His eyes flick to his companion, then away as he considers the answer.]
I remember being tired. Cold. It was my natural state for the last month I can recall before I reawakened. I had lost the feeling in my hands. It was... hard to focus on the world around me, as so much of it didn't seem real. My dreams bled into my waking hours more than they ever had.
[He flips back several pages in his journal, then beyond a few blank ones, and the change becomes obvious: gone in the earlier pages is the tiny script he writes with now, small letters Pratt has seen him write in before, replaced instead with large, uneven scrawl. The sentences move up and down, inkblots obscuring entire phrases, new ones written around them. He flips again and again, going for nearly a dozen pages back before his writing returns to nearly normal.]
I think I knew that day that I would not last until night. I remember that, despite my exhaustion, I walked the length of the house, making sure everything was as it should be for one last time.
[He tries to remember what he was feeling while strapped to the chair, but after so long in Hadriel, and the very brief moment back home, he really can't. Maybe that's a blessing - he's not quite as focused on the fact he's about to die. But it also makes it feel so strange, almost as if it's happening to someone else. It's weird what distance and time will do to your senses.]
And then it was just nothingness? Until you woke up again?
[He closes his eyes, tightly this time as he tries to remember them, flipping back through memories like the pages in his journal.]
A barren, colorless land - the Land Beyond Living. But then I recall people as well. My home. Bear Den. I could not be in both places at once, could I? But it- it felt like that. Separated, but in unison.
[His face twists, the wrinkles around his eyes etching deeper as his brow furrows.]
Faces I know. I- I know them, but I- what were their names? They lose themselves. They wanted to run, but something... kept them there. They couldn't run. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but- but the bidding of their- of—
[The Blight Heir. His breath rattles through his throat, hands trembling as he shoves his fingers under his glasses, pressing against his eyes to quell the incoming headache.]
I was so angry. Bitter. Alone, as always. I wanted them to feel it, and suffer as I had. I wanted them to—
[He pulls his hands away, opening his eyes as ink oozes from them, trailing along the stains that cut a path down his face and below his mask.]
I can't. I can't think about this anymore. S- sorry.
[Pratt listens, but he doesn't really understand. Is this what it was like for Carlisle? He'd said something about being twice-cursed. Was his soul actually separating from his body? Could he sense that? It sounds awful and traumatizing and no wonder Carlisle is acting even stranger than usual.]
No it's fine you're..
[Oh the ink thing is startling. He'd seen something similar once before, but never like this. And he was too terrified at the time to really notice what was happening to Carlisle. ]
Uh.. Are you.. You're... It's fine. You don't have to think about that right now. I'm sorry I brought it up, I was just curious. Not really looking forward to dying but I don't really have much of a choice.
[He averts his eyes, watching Carlisle cry ink seems strangely vulnerable and he doesn't want to make him more uncomfortable than he already is.]
[Carlisle's eyes glow brightly, finally focusing on his hands before him; the black stains on the fingertips of his gloves alarm him, quiet panic crossing him as he digs into his bag, producing a kerchief. He's grateful for Pratt's polite avoidance, the man giving him a moment of privacy to remove his glasses and attempt to wipe away the ink before it seeps into his mask.
He turns away as well, desperate to keep secret what lies beneath his quilted layers, despite the fact that Pratt is one of the few who truly knows. He cannot bring himself to bare his face; the shame of what he has become is far greater than even his need for secrecy.]
My apologies, I- I didn't expect to react like that. My temperament has been... unsteady since I awakened.
[It is the nature of Revenants, after all, as their bitter loneliness and spiteful rage are said to form a volatile concoction of energies capable of keeping them animated, ones they then use to lash out at those around them. Given that, and his discomfort with the uncertain and unknown, it's no surprise he's been struggling to keep his composure these days as he adjusts to both his body and his surroundings simultaneously. His handkerchief is ruined when he turns back to Pratt and replaces his glasses, but at least his mask is stain-free for now.]
As for dying, I assume it is far more peaceful for most. Perhaps a calming experience of leaving this dreadful world behind, so long as you have no regrets when the time comes.
I hope it's peaceful but as for no regrets... well... I don't think I'm there yet. Maybe eventually.
[Assuming he remembers this, since apparently Carlisle didn't. And others in Hadriel who had left and returned had said the same. They didn't remember anything about Hadriel and no time had passed. But he doesn't want to bring that up now. They have more important catching up to do.]
You don't have to apologize - you're kinda adapting to a bunch of new shit. You're doing better than I would. I probably would have had a breakdown and not left my room for a month.
You say that as though I haven't been hiding for days, mulling over our first encounter. Well, the first for me, perhaps.
[Despite the fact Pratt knows him well enough to have probably expected it, Carlisle is still embarrassed he fled. Avoiding his problems in the most literal sense has been his way of life for as long as he can remember, a habit only exacerbated by his affliction. It was easier to hide; it kept people from being tainted by his curse, or so he thought. He's not sure what to think anymore, save for that he does feel some sense of camaraderie with Pratt already, as though he could commiserate with this man about many of the regrets they carry with them. Perhaps that's why Carlisle was his friend before.
His natural paranoia tells him not to trust any of this, despite the proof Poison has of his existence in Hadriel, but Carlisle finds that in all honesty, he wants to believe its real -- the city, the people, the connections, all of it. He was angry at first for having lost it all, and still is in some way, but the thought he could have all this again is painfully enticing... and far better than the alternative. He has lived that way for far too long already.]
Okay but you came out. When I first showed up in Hadriel I didn't leave the house for a week and basically ate sticks and marinated in my gross clothes because I couldn't work the laundry machines.
It was pretty bad.
I guess this is kind of a new beginning, I didn't stay in my room being gross, and you came out and didn't go into hiding for a year. We're getting better.
[He smiles widely enough that it pulls at the edges of his mask.]
Far gone as I worry I may be, with what life I had in shambles a world away... I do like the thought that this could be a new beginning, and a chance to do better. A chance to- to make up for what he did. For what- for what I—
[He has a hard time admitting it, not wishing to picture himself as a monster. The distance provided by treating the Blight Heir as a separate entity helps, but does not assuage his guilt. His fingers curl, his expression hardening.]
I will do better. It will take time, though. Time I am not sure I have.
I think in this place you have all the time you need. It doesn't follow the same rules of nature that back home did. Hadriel.. well.. people said no time passed if they went home and came back. Which I think means no time was really passing.
That's how someone explained it to me anyway. So you're kind of.. in stasis I guess. That's good right?
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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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I remember being tired. Cold. It was my natural state for the last month I can recall before I reawakened. I had lost the feeling in my hands. It was... hard to focus on the world around me, as so much of it didn't seem real. My dreams bled into my waking hours more than they ever had.
[He flips back several pages in his journal, then beyond a few blank ones, and the change becomes obvious: gone in the earlier pages is the tiny script he writes with now, small letters Pratt has seen him write in before, replaced instead with large, uneven scrawl. The sentences move up and down, inkblots obscuring entire phrases, new ones written around them. He flips again and again, going for nearly a dozen pages back before his writing returns to nearly normal.]
I think I knew that day that I would not last until night. I remember that, despite my exhaustion, I walked the length of the house, making sure everything was as it should be for one last time.
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[He tries to remember what he was feeling while strapped to the chair, but after so long in Hadriel, and the very brief moment back home, he really can't. Maybe that's a blessing - he's not quite as focused on the fact he's about to die. But it also makes it feel so strange, almost as if it's happening to someone else. It's weird what distance and time will do to your senses.]
And then it was just nothingness? Until you woke up again?
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[He closes his eyes, tightly this time as he tries to remember them, flipping back through memories like the pages in his journal.]
A barren, colorless land - the Land Beyond Living. But then I recall people as well. My home. Bear Den. I could not be in both places at once, could I? But it- it felt like that. Separated, but in unison.
[His face twists, the wrinkles around his eyes etching deeper as his brow furrows.]
Faces I know. I- I know them, but I- what were their names? They lose themselves. They wanted to run, but something... kept them there. They couldn't run. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but- but the bidding of their- of—
[The Blight Heir. His breath rattles through his throat, hands trembling as he shoves his fingers under his glasses, pressing against his eyes to quell the incoming headache.]
I was so angry. Bitter. Alone, as always. I wanted them to feel it, and suffer as I had. I wanted them to—
[He pulls his hands away, opening his eyes as ink oozes from them, trailing along the stains that cut a path down his face and below his mask.]
I can't. I can't think about this anymore. S- sorry.
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No it's fine you're..
[Oh the ink thing is startling. He'd seen something similar once before, but never like this. And he was too terrified at the time to really notice what was happening to Carlisle. ]
Uh.. Are you.. You're... It's fine. You don't have to think about that right now. I'm sorry I brought it up, I was just curious. Not really looking forward to dying but I don't really have much of a choice.
[He averts his eyes, watching Carlisle cry ink seems strangely vulnerable and he doesn't want to make him more uncomfortable than he already is.]
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He turns away as well, desperate to keep secret what lies beneath his quilted layers, despite the fact that Pratt is one of the few who truly knows. He cannot bring himself to bare his face; the shame of what he has become is far greater than even his need for secrecy.]
My apologies, I- I didn't expect to react like that. My temperament has been... unsteady since I awakened.
[It is the nature of Revenants, after all, as their bitter loneliness and spiteful rage are said to form a volatile concoction of energies capable of keeping them animated, ones they then use to lash out at those around them. Given that, and his discomfort with the uncertain and unknown, it's no surprise he's been struggling to keep his composure these days as he adjusts to both his body and his surroundings simultaneously. His handkerchief is ruined when he turns back to Pratt and replaces his glasses, but at least his mask is stain-free for now.]
As for dying, I assume it is far more peaceful for most. Perhaps a calming experience of leaving this dreadful world behind, so long as you have no regrets when the time comes.
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[Assuming he remembers this, since apparently Carlisle didn't. And others in Hadriel who had left and returned had said the same. They didn't remember anything about Hadriel and no time had passed. But he doesn't want to bring that up now. They have more important catching up to do.]
You don't have to apologize - you're kinda adapting to a bunch of new shit. You're doing better than I would. I probably would have had a breakdown and not left my room for a month.
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You say that as though I haven't been hiding for days, mulling over our first encounter. Well, the first for me, perhaps.
[Despite the fact Pratt knows him well enough to have probably expected it, Carlisle is still embarrassed he fled. Avoiding his problems in the most literal sense has been his way of life for as long as he can remember, a habit only exacerbated by his affliction. It was easier to hide; it kept people from being tainted by his curse, or so he thought. He's not sure what to think anymore, save for that he does feel some sense of camaraderie with Pratt already, as though he could commiserate with this man about many of the regrets they carry with them. Perhaps that's why Carlisle was his friend before.
His natural paranoia tells him not to trust any of this, despite the proof Poison has of his existence in Hadriel, but Carlisle finds that in all honesty, he wants to believe its real -- the city, the people, the connections, all of it. He was angry at first for having lost it all, and still is in some way, but the thought he could have all this again is painfully enticing... and far better than the alternative. He has lived that way for far too long already.]
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It was pretty bad.
I guess this is kind of a new beginning, I didn't stay in my room being gross, and you came out and didn't go into hiding for a year. We're getting better.
Kinda.
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[He smiles widely enough that it pulls at the edges of his mask.]
Far gone as I worry I may be, with what life I had in shambles a world away... I do like the thought that this could be a new beginning, and a chance to do better. A chance to- to make up for what he did. For what- for what I—
[He has a hard time admitting it, not wishing to picture himself as a monster. The distance provided by treating the Blight Heir as a separate entity helps, but does not assuage his guilt. His fingers curl, his expression hardening.]
I will do better. It will take time, though. Time I am not sure I have.
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That's how someone explained it to me anyway. So you're kind of.. in stasis I guess. That's good right?
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Perhaps. But unless I am in stasis here, there might be a problem if this... awakened state is not permanent.
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cw: suicidal ideation
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