[Several months had passed since the catastrophe that was the Synod. News had begun to properly spread, even as the death toll continues to rise. People missing, resistances crumbling, merging, disbanding as ideologies clash, it seemed like everything was more fractured than it had ever been.]
[Emperor Skywalker had died at the Synod. The Empire had fallen, destroyed by one of Skywalker's own adjudicators. He'd become something immeasurable. Something wholly dedicated to seeing everything the Emperor built brought to ruin. And somehow, even Jadus, whatever he had become, had met a grim fate.]
[The Empire was gone. A chapter in this world's history that will some day likely fascinate scholars...but to those who saw its rise and fall, it will be a ruined monument to hubris. It was gone and all those who seemingly lived there died with it. Even the one who brought Jadus down vanished with nary a trace.]
[Several months have passed and despite the unrest whirling about outside, the Vale is likely to be doing well given its secluded nature. So it's a little worrisome that some have called upon the Vale's caretaker. Someone appears to be approaching from the east. A man who, at one point stood tall and confident, reduced to hobbling on a gnarled staff made of lashed together wood and metal. His broad body emaciated, muscles lacking any real definition, clothes practically sloughing off of his frame. But most noticeably, his vibrant blue hair hangs matted, framing his face, mussed and long falls halfway down his back. And from beneath unkempt and shaggy bangs, green eyes seek out someone familiar.]
[He's stopped at the entrance and he scratches at the scruff on his chin and cheek, blue hair filling out sunken a pale face and slightly gaunt features. When asked to identify himself, he coughs.]
[Cecelia does not enjoy it when her hunches are right, because she tends to assume the worst. she didn't want the worst! gods, all she wanted was her measure of peace...
she got it, of course, but it wasn't a comfortable sort of peace. instead, she got to sit in the silence of her vale with what remained of those who came with her. not many who went with her to the Synod came back, and those who made it out...left anyway.
can't blame them, wouldn't think to.
still awful. turns out she didn't mind having company -- company she curated, at least.
there's also the matter of Darin...and how she'd yet again seen another wretched prophecy of doom fulfilled. enjoy it while it lasts, she'd thought, kissing that man, because it certainly won't.
gods, the universe certainly had to slap her for that one in record time, didn't it?
of course she grieved. losing a friend twice over, perhaps something more than that this one single time she dropped her guard? absolutely fucking figures, and she has no one to blame but herself. she'll still cry about it and no one can stop her...because most everyone is dead anyway.
bitterness and malaise keeps her company for those months, passing by both slowly and swiftly, as time ever does for her. it's more a torment because she finds herself unable to focus on writing or reading the things she's fond of, and so whittling hours away on busywork was her only recourse. not great for her mood.
her mood doesn't improve much at all when she hears there's been a fresh find on the border -- nothing completely new in these new after-times, but never something to be desired. when that husk of a man is brought into the longhouse, Cecelia is over in short order, already a small thunderstorm of a foul mood. her nose wrinkles right away at the state (and smell?) of him, repulsed on-sight, but not cruelhearted enough to immediately turn such a sight out. gods damned bleeding heart.]
How in the world did you find your way out here in such a state? You look like the undead an--
[she'd bent forward to peer past the matted bangs to try and get a look at the man's face and, having caught glimpse of something she knew, recoiled with a horrified gasp, clapping her hands over her mouth.]
[A wry smile creaks and cracks its way across his features, a flash of a youthful grin still there beneath the grime and the scruff.]
[He forces himself to stand. His knees wobble as if the ground were quaking violently and he leans heavily on the staff that acted as the much needed third leg, but he gets there. And when he stands upright...well, it's all there. He's all there. Sure he's worse for ware and barely standing but he's there. All his bits and pieces, four limbs, ten fingers and ten toes. In desperate need of a shave and a haircut but...]
I think I look a little better than 'undead.' Kinda implies I've been decomposing. M'still all here, you know.
[His voice is hoarse but...well what can you expect? But it was still him.]
...Sorry it took me this long to get back to you, Lady Ardenbury.
[He decides to go with the formal. There's no telling how mad she is or if she even cares about him like that anymore. At the very least, he could try and be aware and sensitive of her feelings. Though he still hoped there was room in her heart for him.]
[she can barely croak a word out, so utterly flummoxed by this reveal. Soap opera stars at least get their scripts in advance for such things -- that way they can gasp and react in the prettiest, most camera-friendly ways possible. same goes for the simpering, whimpering fools in fiction, as there's rarely an ugly cry to ruin the perfect reunion.
Cecelia, who used to consume that stuff as if it were required to live, who used to daydream about her own heartfelt reunions, even script a few in her day, can't possibly think of any of it. not when he's gone and defied prophecy like this!
she starts to weep, her legs giving way and sending her to the floor as she tries to stop herself, face in her hands.]
[He's there to catch her, though he's not going to be staying up. This act of heroism, of actively sweeping her into his arms, is brought to you by the ever helpful force of gravity, rather than any strength in his body. But hey, the intent is there.]
[And so he's holding her slightly against himself, where she can feel the tightly corded muscles occasionally punctuated by the jab of bone here and there. He's lost so much of himself but yet there was still so much of him left; his little idiosyncrosies, his warmth, his outlook.]
Yeah...Yeah it's me...
M'back.
[He pets her hair a bit, half expecting a slap or a pointed jab to his chest or some torrent of anger to fly at him. He'd deserve it, after all. It's been months and he'd never even contacted her.]
[idiot! stupid fool idiot! how can you be alive?! she wants very much to rage a bit, and it shows in the gradual-yet-noticable spike in her temperature, but as far as interrogations go? she can't muster it. she can only hang onto him and cry -- cry for him, for what had happened, for what she put up with for months, months not knowing and dreading the worst!
how is he here when the script states he should be well and properly dead?
she needs a few minutes to let cocktail of anguish and shock and relief out, because the longer he holds her means it's less likely she's having some kind of very visceral hallucination. the world practically exploded some months ago -- it's not unlikely that radiation finally got to her brain!
eventually, though, she has enough wits about her to withdraw, bringing her hands up to brush hair out of his face and actually take the sight of him in, almost moved to crying all over again. who did this to him?]
There's a very...very long explanation for all of this. Isn't there.
[because there has to be; he has no other excuse to show up after all this time, looking like this.]
R-right...of course. [of course... she releases him and gets to her feet, wiping at her eyes.] Let's...get you cleaned off and in a, a more livable state. Yes. Can you walk? Or should I fetch someone...
[of course she can...and of course she will. and along the way, she'll count every wince and waver, hating that they're there. Darin's not supposed to be so feeble -- even when he'd be beaten to a pulp for this or that, he'd still hobble around with a spring in his step.
at least, her memory convinces her otherwise.
in any case, she leads the way to her home, the walk being one of the longest she'd ever had. inside, though, she feels more in control of things -- she conjured the damn place, after all -- and moves swiftly and with earnest, betraying any cool she may have been able to convey in reining her expression in now that the ugly crying is done with.
she leaves him lingering for a bit so she can draw a bath and bustle about a bit before leading him over there. the faster she moves, the less likely she is to get overwhelmed by feelings again.]
In here. Clean off. Don't--don't...drown...you can manage that, yes? There's some clean things to put on. [and now that he's practically a skeleton, they'll likely fit...?]
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[Emperor Skywalker had died at the Synod. The Empire had fallen, destroyed by one of Skywalker's own adjudicators. He'd become something immeasurable. Something wholly dedicated to seeing everything the Emperor built brought to ruin. And somehow, even Jadus, whatever he had become, had met a grim fate.]
[The Empire was gone. A chapter in this world's history that will some day likely fascinate scholars...but to those who saw its rise and fall, it will be a ruined monument to hubris. It was gone and all those who seemingly lived there died with it. Even the one who brought Jadus down vanished with nary a trace.]
[Several months have passed and despite the unrest whirling about outside, the Vale is likely to be doing well given its secluded nature. So it's a little worrisome that some have called upon the Vale's caretaker. Someone appears to be approaching from the east. A man who, at one point stood tall and confident, reduced to hobbling on a gnarled staff made of lashed together wood and metal. His broad body emaciated, muscles lacking any real definition, clothes practically sloughing off of his frame. But most noticeably, his vibrant blue hair hangs matted, framing his face, mussed and long falls halfway down his back. And from beneath unkempt and shaggy bangs, green eyes seek out someone familiar.]
[He's stopped at the entrance and he scratches at the scruff on his chin and cheek, blue hair filling out sunken a pale face and slightly gaunt features. When asked to identify himself, he coughs.]
You wouldn't believe me if I told you...
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she got it, of course, but it wasn't a comfortable sort of peace. instead, she got to sit in the silence of her vale with what remained of those who came with her. not many who went with her to the Synod came back, and those who made it out...left anyway.
can't blame them, wouldn't think to.
still awful. turns out she didn't mind having company -- company she curated, at least.
there's also the matter of Darin...and how she'd yet again seen another wretched prophecy of doom fulfilled. enjoy it while it lasts, she'd thought, kissing that man, because it certainly won't.
gods, the universe certainly had to slap her for that one in record time, didn't it?
of course she grieved. losing a friend twice over, perhaps something more than that this one single time she dropped her guard? absolutely fucking figures, and she has no one to blame but herself. she'll still cry about it and no one can stop her...because most everyone is dead anyway.
bitterness and malaise keeps her company for those months, passing by both slowly and swiftly, as time ever does for her. it's more a torment because she finds herself unable to focus on writing or reading the things she's fond of, and so whittling hours away on busywork was her only recourse. not great for her mood.
her mood doesn't improve much at all when she hears there's been a fresh find on the border -- nothing completely new in these new after-times, but never something to be desired. when that husk of a man is brought into the longhouse, Cecelia is over in short order, already a small thunderstorm of a foul mood. her nose wrinkles right away at the state (and smell?) of him, repulsed on-sight, but not cruelhearted enough to immediately turn such a sight out. gods damned bleeding heart.]
How in the world did you find your way out here in such a state? You look like the undead an--
[she'd bent forward to peer past the matted bangs to try and get a look at the man's face and, having caught glimpse of something she knew, recoiled with a horrified gasp, clapping her hands over her mouth.]
no subject
[He forces himself to stand. His knees wobble as if the ground were quaking violently and he leans heavily on the staff that acted as the much needed third leg, but he gets there. And when he stands upright...well, it's all there. He's all there. Sure he's worse for ware and barely standing but he's there. All his bits and pieces, four limbs, ten fingers and ten toes. In desperate need of a shave and a haircut but...]
I think I look a little better than 'undead.' Kinda implies I've been decomposing. M'still all here, you know.
[His voice is hoarse but...well what can you expect? But it was still him.]
...Sorry it took me this long to get back to you, Lady Ardenbury.
[He decides to go with the formal. There's no telling how mad she is or if she even cares about him like that anymore. At the very least, he could try and be aware and sensitive of her feelings. Though he still hoped there was room in her heart for him.]
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[she can barely croak a word out, so utterly flummoxed by this reveal. Soap opera stars at least get their scripts in advance for such things -- that way they can gasp and react in the prettiest, most camera-friendly ways possible. same goes for the simpering, whimpering fools in fiction, as there's rarely an ugly cry to ruin the perfect reunion.
Cecelia, who used to consume that stuff as if it were required to live, who used to daydream about her own heartfelt reunions, even script a few in her day, can't possibly think of any of it. not when he's gone and defied prophecy like this!
she starts to weep, her legs giving way and sending her to the floor as she tries to stop herself, face in her hands.]
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[And so he's holding her slightly against himself, where she can feel the tightly corded muscles occasionally punctuated by the jab of bone here and there. He's lost so much of himself but yet there was still so much of him left; his little idiosyncrosies, his warmth, his outlook.]
Yeah...Yeah it's me...
M'back.
[He pets her hair a bit, half expecting a slap or a pointed jab to his chest or some torrent of anger to fly at him. He'd deserve it, after all. It's been months and he'd never even contacted her.]
no subject
how is he here when the script states he should be well and properly dead?
she needs a few minutes to let cocktail of anguish and shock and relief out, because the longer he holds her means it's less likely she's having some kind of very visceral hallucination. the world practically exploded some months ago -- it's not unlikely that radiation finally got to her brain!
eventually, though, she has enough wits about her to withdraw, bringing her hands up to brush hair out of his face and actually take the sight of him in, almost moved to crying all over again. who did this to him?]
There's a very...very long explanation for all of this. Isn't there.
[because there has to be; he has no other excuse to show up after all this time, looking like this.]
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The only thing really long about it is the amount of time it took...it's actually disappointingly simple...
[He looks around, scratching idly at his scruff.]
I hate to ask but...think I could freshen up a bit before I get into the sordid details...?
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[He holds her out to arms' length and reaches for his walking stick. Once it's planted, he practically climbs it all the way back up to his feet.]
Sorry...think you can lead the way?
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at least, her memory convinces her otherwise.
in any case, she leads the way to her home, the walk being one of the longest she'd ever had. inside, though, she feels more in control of things -- she conjured the damn place, after all -- and moves swiftly and with earnest, betraying any cool she may have been able to convey in reining her expression in now that the ugly crying is done with.
she leaves him lingering for a bit so she can draw a bath and bustle about a bit before leading him over there. the faster she moves, the less likely she is to get overwhelmed by feelings again.]
In here. Clean off. Don't--don't...drown...you can manage that, yes? There's some clean things to put on. [and now that he's practically a skeleton, they'll likely fit...?]