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( ooc: taking place directly after the events of this thread. )
( the returning stone finally activates, space shifts and turns around him, once more temporarily throwing him into the crushing void before depositing him unceremoniously on the floor of the lodestone chamber in achamoth. he is not in a good way. he had left the stone floor of the shrine of the sovereign stained in blood, and now he seems fast on his way to do much the same here.
it's not to say he hasn't put forth his best efforts to keep that from happening — his shirt is in bloody tatters where he's torn it apart at the seams to get at the horrible wound that the blade of a lance leaves when piercing through the chest just below the ribs, all the way through, before being pulled free. wherever he goes, makoto carries with him a surgical needle and medical sutures (or whatever equivalent he can find here), and so while he'd waited for the returning stone to activate, he'd sewed up the gash. it hadn't been easy, not with loss of blood dimming his vision and that escaping blood welling up and spilling out from around his numb fingers; his body had shook with the effort of even holding his hands up high enough to fumble through the motions of stitching up his abdomen, but he'd managed it. it wasn't pretty, but it would do — sure enough, the bleeding had staunched as soon as he'd finished. in hell, this demonic body of his would cling to life no matter what he did to it, but here... well, so long as he could piece it together, it seems it would slowly drag itself back toward a state of equilibrium.
but that's just the problem. it wasn't the only injury he had — not when the angry laceration on his front had a similarly irate sibling through his back. admittedly, the former had been far more grievous, but the latter still aches and stings and bleeds; the evidence blooms like a crimson flower through the rich fabric of the heavy coat he wears over his shoulders. he tries to stand, but he can't seem to force his legs to cooperate; he's forced to collapse right back to the ground. he shrugs one arm out of the coat, reaching toward the font of pain centered in his back. he hisses a curse underneath his breath. how is he supposed to suture a wound like this? he isn't sure how much longer he can continue to lose blood and remain conscious. had he really endeavored so much to end up slipping away like this regardless?
the ignominy of the thought is almost too much to bear. )
( the returning stone finally activates, space shifts and turns around him, once more temporarily throwing him into the crushing void before depositing him unceremoniously on the floor of the lodestone chamber in achamoth. he is not in a good way. he had left the stone floor of the shrine of the sovereign stained in blood, and now he seems fast on his way to do much the same here.
it's not to say he hasn't put forth his best efforts to keep that from happening — his shirt is in bloody tatters where he's torn it apart at the seams to get at the horrible wound that the blade of a lance leaves when piercing through the chest just below the ribs, all the way through, before being pulled free. wherever he goes, makoto carries with him a surgical needle and medical sutures (or whatever equivalent he can find here), and so while he'd waited for the returning stone to activate, he'd sewed up the gash. it hadn't been easy, not with loss of blood dimming his vision and that escaping blood welling up and spilling out from around his numb fingers; his body had shook with the effort of even holding his hands up high enough to fumble through the motions of stitching up his abdomen, but he'd managed it. it wasn't pretty, but it would do — sure enough, the bleeding had staunched as soon as he'd finished. in hell, this demonic body of his would cling to life no matter what he did to it, but here... well, so long as he could piece it together, it seems it would slowly drag itself back toward a state of equilibrium.
but that's just the problem. it wasn't the only injury he had — not when the angry laceration on his front had a similarly irate sibling through his back. admittedly, the former had been far more grievous, but the latter still aches and stings and bleeds; the evidence blooms like a crimson flower through the rich fabric of the heavy coat he wears over his shoulders. he tries to stand, but he can't seem to force his legs to cooperate; he's forced to collapse right back to the ground. he shrugs one arm out of the coat, reaching toward the font of pain centered in his back. he hisses a curse underneath his breath. how is he supposed to suture a wound like this? he isn't sure how much longer he can continue to lose blood and remain conscious. had he really endeavored so much to end up slipping away like this regardless?
the ignominy of the thought is almost too much to bear. )
[It should come as no surprise that people come and go through the lodestone chamber. But that one of them stops immediately, a sharp gasp escaping her throat at the sight of him? Small and gentle hands help tug off the coat, if he will allow it. Meteion takes less care with the shirt--it's a loss anyway. Though it helps to clean up some of the blood.]
What happened to you? Tell me what to do, tell me how to help! [Best to begin with that. There is another, far larger presence with this small girl--from the way she addresses him, it's likely her retainer.]
Gurbahl! Go fetch me warm water and a clean cloth. And if you please, fetch some food? [She knew it was fairly important to eat for most folk, after all. He might not want it immediately, but it can only help. Even if that help comes later.]
When he gets back, we can help you to your quarters, but first things first. [Meteion was created as an exploration and discovery probe; noticing things is something she does easily.] You sewed yourself?
What happened to you? Tell me what to do, tell me how to help! [Best to begin with that. There is another, far larger presence with this small girl--from the way she addresses him, it's likely her retainer.]
Gurbahl! Go fetch me warm water and a clean cloth. And if you please, fetch some food? [She knew it was fairly important to eat for most folk, after all. He might not want it immediately, but it can only help. Even if that help comes later.]
When he gets back, we can help you to your quarters, but first things first. [Meteion was created as an exploration and discovery probe; noticing things is something she does easily.] You sewed yourself?
( it's certainly for the best that someone was passing by in the lodestone chamber to take note of the state that he's in, and especially someone who would actually think to help and not merely rub salt in the already very concerning wound. he recognizes the girl, of course — in a way she seems more familiar to him than many of their more human comrades do, just in that a creature like her wouldn't have been surprising to see in his version of hell. he hasn't had the opportunity to speak much with her as of yet, so he thinks he should be grateful she is a helpful type.
even if he really cared to, he's not particularly equipped right now to fight back against her concern and offer for help. the bloodied coat is slipped off of his other remaining shoulder, and, well... at that point, his shirt is essentially hanging off of him in tatters, so to use it to help wipe away some of the blood is a good enough use for it. a sound catches in makoto's throat — half a huff of scorn and half a gurgle. ) The sharp end of a spear, ( he replies in a thin, strained voice, trying (and failing) to distract himself from how shameful it is to return in what he views as sound defeat.
at least he had managed to land a blade into his attacker's back before he'd left.
he breathes, but raggedly; whatever damage exists to his lungs or whatever other internal organs will simply be until the point that it doesn't any longer. he won't die from it — once mended, his body will doggedly pursue stability, whether he wants it to or not. at her question, he nods; he extends a bloodied hand to offer her something. a sturdy needle and surgical-strength thread. )
I - can't reach — ( a sudden fit of coughing interrupts him, so instead he has to gesture, indicating the small wound the tip of the spear had made as it exited through his back. even still, it runs wildly with blood. ) If you can sew it up - I'll begin to heal. Do you know how?
even if he really cared to, he's not particularly equipped right now to fight back against her concern and offer for help. the bloodied coat is slipped off of his other remaining shoulder, and, well... at that point, his shirt is essentially hanging off of him in tatters, so to use it to help wipe away some of the blood is a good enough use for it. a sound catches in makoto's throat — half a huff of scorn and half a gurgle. ) The sharp end of a spear, ( he replies in a thin, strained voice, trying (and failing) to distract himself from how shameful it is to return in what he views as sound defeat.
at least he had managed to land a blade into his attacker's back before he'd left.
he breathes, but raggedly; whatever damage exists to his lungs or whatever other internal organs will simply be until the point that it doesn't any longer. he won't die from it — once mended, his body will doggedly pursue stability, whether he wants it to or not. at her question, he nods; he extends a bloodied hand to offer her something. a sturdy needle and surgical-strength thread. )
I - can't reach — ( a sudden fit of coughing interrupts him, so instead he has to gesture, indicating the small wound the tip of the spear had made as it exited through his back. even still, it runs wildly with blood. ) If you can sew it up - I'll begin to heal. Do you know how?
Estinien. [She breathes that--he's the typical Pleroma that Meteion would consider using a spear, since that's so apropos for a dragoon like Estinien. She frowns. But the dragoon is also the type to give no quarter--she remembers that well enough from their altercation in Ultima Thule.]
I unmade him once, you know. [Voice turning conversational, she takes the needle and thread from Makoto, and pauses, simply because Meteion is considering how best to go about this. Does she know how? Not exactly, but she's seen sewing done before...] I don't have the ability to do that any more, though.
I've never sewn people. In Elpis, sewing fabric was common, however. I'm well aware of the concept. I'm not afraid. You need this. I can do it. [The bird is certainly resolute about it. She can feel his pain, and she wants to ease it. That alone would stiffen her spine.]
I'd wait until my retainer gets back with supplies, but I'm not sure you can wait. Deep breath, hold it, please, as I begin.
[For a novice, she's certainly got a confident demeanor and a surprisingly gentle touch. That and, as an empath, she's probably using her empathy to dull his pain a little. No, she didn't ask, but she can tell how bad off he is. She can't take it away entirely--not and do a good job. So Meteion isn't, and won't. But if he's angry about trying to ease it? She'll apologize later...]
Do you want me to try to find someone with healing magic to check if there's anything serious internally, once we're done? I could ask Emet-Selch, but I yield to what you feel up to.
I unmade him once, you know. [Voice turning conversational, she takes the needle and thread from Makoto, and pauses, simply because Meteion is considering how best to go about this. Does she know how? Not exactly, but she's seen sewing done before...] I don't have the ability to do that any more, though.
I've never sewn people. In Elpis, sewing fabric was common, however. I'm well aware of the concept. I'm not afraid. You need this. I can do it. [The bird is certainly resolute about it. She can feel his pain, and she wants to ease it. That alone would stiffen her spine.]
I'd wait until my retainer gets back with supplies, but I'm not sure you can wait. Deep breath, hold it, please, as I begin.
[For a novice, she's certainly got a confident demeanor and a surprisingly gentle touch. That and, as an empath, she's probably using her empathy to dull his pain a little. No, she didn't ask, but she can tell how bad off he is. She can't take it away entirely--not and do a good job. So Meteion isn't, and won't. But if he's angry about trying to ease it? She'll apologize later...]
Do you want me to try to find someone with healing magic to check if there's anything serious internally, once we're done? I could ask Emet-Selch, but I yield to what you feel up to.
( he's surprised, shooting her a sharp look; he hadn't remembered her giving any input on estinien when they had been sharing information about their enemies via Communion, but perhaps all there was to be said about the tall, dangerous man had already been said. he's so accustomed to thinking of all of them as from their own disparate, wildly different worlds — he forgets that some of them actually do come from the same universes, sharing among them complicated histories that only continue on to an even messier chapter here.
she takes the needle and thread from him, and he grimaces. ) A shame it didn't take.
( their lives would be much easier without the dragoon about to menace them, and certainly makoto would have suffered far less in the absence of his supposed unmaking.
so long as she knows how to use the needle and thread, he isn't too concerned. he takes a deep breath and breathes out, steadying himself. unfortunately, makoto does not have a great resistance to pain — many demons did, but there was much of him (too much of him, he might say) that resembled himself as a human. the wound in his chest hurts, even mended as it is, as does the one in his back. the interior of his chest feels like a riot of razor blades and lit irons, shifting about every time he takes a breath or moves. it will fade, he know it will, but convincing himself of the ethereal nature of pain doesn't make it go away. it jams itself into his brain as a solid, unavoidable block. ) It doesn't have to be perfect. You will see — ( a sharp twinge causes him to flinch, back bending as he curls inwards. breath hisses between clenched teeth. ) Just - do what you can.
( he might not be aware of what she's doing, but her powers of empathy do have an impact — that wedge of pain that's been driven into the base of his skull remains, but its edges get sanded down at the very least. )
This body won't let me die so easily. ( cryptically-put... ) Make it whole - and I should be fine. With time.
( he doesn't like to ask for help. even if the other doesn't ask for anything in return, he ends up feeling beholden to them — demons don't exactly do anything for others without recompense, and so he tends to expect the same from everyone else in the end. but he acknowledges he needs meteion's help here, and so he does what she asked and takes a deep breath, locking it within his damaged lungs. )
she takes the needle and thread from him, and he grimaces. ) A shame it didn't take.
( their lives would be much easier without the dragoon about to menace them, and certainly makoto would have suffered far less in the absence of his supposed unmaking.
so long as she knows how to use the needle and thread, he isn't too concerned. he takes a deep breath and breathes out, steadying himself. unfortunately, makoto does not have a great resistance to pain — many demons did, but there was much of him (too much of him, he might say) that resembled himself as a human. the wound in his chest hurts, even mended as it is, as does the one in his back. the interior of his chest feels like a riot of razor blades and lit irons, shifting about every time he takes a breath or moves. it will fade, he know it will, but convincing himself of the ethereal nature of pain doesn't make it go away. it jams itself into his brain as a solid, unavoidable block. ) It doesn't have to be perfect. You will see — ( a sharp twinge causes him to flinch, back bending as he curls inwards. breath hisses between clenched teeth. ) Just - do what you can.
( he might not be aware of what she's doing, but her powers of empathy do have an impact — that wedge of pain that's been driven into the base of his skull remains, but its edges get sanded down at the very least. )
This body won't let me die so easily. ( cryptically-put... ) Make it whole - and I should be fine. With time.
( he doesn't like to ask for help. even if the other doesn't ask for anything in return, he ends up feeling beholden to them — demons don't exactly do anything for others without recompense, and so he tends to expect the same from everyone else in the end. but he acknowledges he needs meteion's help here, and so he does what she asked and takes a deep breath, locking it within his damaged lungs. )
He's kinder to his friends.
[It's a bit flat, but clearly Meteion isn't sure if she is one of Estinien's friends at the moment. Likely not. She'd say she was his, but she's also quite aware that she's on the wrong side, and that the Dragoon makes no quarter with such things. Meteion mostly is talking to provide a distraction; there is something to be said that small fingers are deft fingers. Since she does have small fingers, small hands, even when M moves, she's able to follow. So that the pain she is causing is over, and swiftly. The stitches are neat and close together, though they're an angry red from freshness, and still oozing a bit.]
I don't think they'll tear, but I'd rather my servant help you back to your quarters. This way, neither of our work will be undone. With what you've suffered, you're unlikely to simply stroll back to your room.
[His assumption is correct; Meteion would definitely not ask for anything in return. She's only glad that she was there to be able to help him. Her servant has stood there quietly, awaiting whatever orders he might be given. Gurbahl well knows it's not his place to have an opinion, here. Even if that's by his own choice--Meteion would never say such a thing.]
[It's a bit flat, but clearly Meteion isn't sure if she is one of Estinien's friends at the moment. Likely not. She'd say she was his, but she's also quite aware that she's on the wrong side, and that the Dragoon makes no quarter with such things. Meteion mostly is talking to provide a distraction; there is something to be said that small fingers are deft fingers. Since she does have small fingers, small hands, even when M moves, she's able to follow. So that the pain she is causing is over, and swiftly. The stitches are neat and close together, though they're an angry red from freshness, and still oozing a bit.]
I don't think they'll tear, but I'd rather my servant help you back to your quarters. This way, neither of our work will be undone. With what you've suffered, you're unlikely to simply stroll back to your room.
[His assumption is correct; Meteion would definitely not ask for anything in return. She's only glad that she was there to be able to help him. Her servant has stood there quietly, awaiting whatever orders he might be given. Gurbahl well knows it's not his place to have an opinion, here. Even if that's by his own choice--Meteion would never say such a thing.]
( all makoto can muster at that is an undignified snort. )
Yes, I learned that first-hand. ( he pauses, a small sound of pain catching in the back of his throat; it's not that meteion is doing a bad job, it's just that he never developed much of a tolerance for this sort of thing, even though he's had to do this sort of thing to himself several times. ) I apparently had the misfortune of coming across one of those friends before he interrupted.
( how was he to know that the pale-haired young man he'd greeted after hatching out of his crystal in the shrine of the sovereign would end up being one of the dragoon's closest companions? he's trying not to make any assumptions about all pale-faced, white-haired, elven-eared strangers that end up finding their way here, but perhaps he should loosen that personal forbearance.
what's strange is that he can feel it when the wound is finally stitched up tight. it's certainly not an instantaneous and miraculous recovery, but some of the pressure and shearing pain in his chest alleviates by precious degrees. his breathing sounds less labored and haggard. meteion will see some of this strangeness as well: as soon as it's closed, the wound oozes a few last drops of blood and then staunches. the angry red of the wound improves visibly, fading to a still-inflamed pink, but it already looks days recovered rather than a few short seconds.
still, it will probably take a few days of rest before he's recovered to the point of any strenuous activity. makoto cautiously shifts into a sitting position, reaching out for his discarded coat. even pierced and bloodied as it is, he pulls it across his shoulders once more, slowing his breathing and looking up to meteion.
she wouldn't have been out of place in hell, he thinks. it's not an insult — hell was oddly idyllic, and not at all what he had thought it might be like, and many of the demons that made their home there were elegant-looking creatures. it's the wings and the bird-like feet, really. she would have blended right in. he studies her for a moment, but he comes to realize that he should know better than to search out any shadows of duplicity in her words or her intentions. it's in the way that she speaks. that would have immediately put her at odds back in hell, where maneuvering and manipulation were the name of the game.
but they're not back there. they're here, and he is... grateful. it's a challenging emotion for him. he's always used to it coming with some dreadful caveat; it makes him paranoid, even as he admits to her, ) ...Thank you, Meteion. ( without hers or anyone else's immediate aid, it's very likely he might have bled out here on the floor of the lodestone chamber. he glances up to the waiting retainer. he could call for his, but he'd sent him on an errand so he didn't stand idle while makoto made rounds to the shrines... ) As much as I hate to lean so much on your generosity - I think you're right. It's best I don't make my way back to my room on my own.
( he says it begrudgingly, but he's not going to risk it at this point. but for this moment... he's going to remain seated just a few seconds longer, gathering up the strength it will take to stand, even with the interior of his chest still in a great deal of disarray. )
Yes, I learned that first-hand. ( he pauses, a small sound of pain catching in the back of his throat; it's not that meteion is doing a bad job, it's just that he never developed much of a tolerance for this sort of thing, even though he's had to do this sort of thing to himself several times. ) I apparently had the misfortune of coming across one of those friends before he interrupted.
( how was he to know that the pale-haired young man he'd greeted after hatching out of his crystal in the shrine of the sovereign would end up being one of the dragoon's closest companions? he's trying not to make any assumptions about all pale-faced, white-haired, elven-eared strangers that end up finding their way here, but perhaps he should loosen that personal forbearance.
what's strange is that he can feel it when the wound is finally stitched up tight. it's certainly not an instantaneous and miraculous recovery, but some of the pressure and shearing pain in his chest alleviates by precious degrees. his breathing sounds less labored and haggard. meteion will see some of this strangeness as well: as soon as it's closed, the wound oozes a few last drops of blood and then staunches. the angry red of the wound improves visibly, fading to a still-inflamed pink, but it already looks days recovered rather than a few short seconds.
still, it will probably take a few days of rest before he's recovered to the point of any strenuous activity. makoto cautiously shifts into a sitting position, reaching out for his discarded coat. even pierced and bloodied as it is, he pulls it across his shoulders once more, slowing his breathing and looking up to meteion.
she wouldn't have been out of place in hell, he thinks. it's not an insult — hell was oddly idyllic, and not at all what he had thought it might be like, and many of the demons that made their home there were elegant-looking creatures. it's the wings and the bird-like feet, really. she would have blended right in. he studies her for a moment, but he comes to realize that he should know better than to search out any shadows of duplicity in her words or her intentions. it's in the way that she speaks. that would have immediately put her at odds back in hell, where maneuvering and manipulation were the name of the game.
but they're not back there. they're here, and he is... grateful. it's a challenging emotion for him. he's always used to it coming with some dreadful caveat; it makes him paranoid, even as he admits to her, ) ...Thank you, Meteion. ( without hers or anyone else's immediate aid, it's very likely he might have bled out here on the floor of the lodestone chamber. he glances up to the waiting retainer. he could call for his, but he'd sent him on an errand so he didn't stand idle while makoto made rounds to the shrines... ) As much as I hate to lean so much on your generosity - I think you're right. It's best I don't make my way back to my room on my own.
( he says it begrudgingly, but he's not going to risk it at this point. but for this moment... he's going to remain seated just a few seconds longer, gathering up the strength it will take to stand, even with the interior of his chest still in a great deal of disarray. )
[Meteion can see it, though it is strange to her, it's not really any different than someone getting the sweet caress of healing magic. She can sense it, too--her empathy tells her that there is soothing not of her own doing. Good. She's done what she came here to do; help M. That's the most important thing. She didn't do it for his thanks, but when it comes, she smiles at him all the same.]
You're welcome. And you aren't. Leaning so much on my generosity, I mean. I'm happy to help! And Gurbahl will do what I ask, even if he wasn't happy about it.
[At that, the large green man looks startled for a moment, and then shakes his head.] This isn't something I'm unhappy about, my lady. Just unexpected, is all. Young sir, how might I help you best? After all her hard work, it'd be rude of me to wreck it by harming you.
[And it should be fairly clear in his demeanor that, giant though he is, Gurbahl is a gentle sort, normally. Though it's also clear that should someone threaten the bird, it was likely he'd take violent umbrage. It's in the way he moves, but he also edges closer to M and goes down on one knee, concern written on his face.]
Let him breathe, Gurbahl! You don't need to be in his face! [Not that he was truly in M's face--that would be too much of a challenge, especially for servant to Aion. Even if that Aion wasn't his. Still, he shuffles backwards awkwardly to give Makoto the space that Meteion demands of him. He's patient. He'll wait until the man is ready to move on his own, and just give support when needed. And it seems that Meteion is willing to wait for his strength to return, such as it is, as well.]
Do you want anything to eat after this? Even if it's something simple? I'm not sure how you feel about actual food, but I know that sort of thing is necessary to recover...
[Briefly, Meteion feels rather silly about it, but she shakes her head and offers the demon a smile. Even after everything, she has to be herself, and her concern is so clearly not feigned.]
You're welcome. And you aren't. Leaning so much on my generosity, I mean. I'm happy to help! And Gurbahl will do what I ask, even if he wasn't happy about it.
[At that, the large green man looks startled for a moment, and then shakes his head.] This isn't something I'm unhappy about, my lady. Just unexpected, is all. Young sir, how might I help you best? After all her hard work, it'd be rude of me to wreck it by harming you.
[And it should be fairly clear in his demeanor that, giant though he is, Gurbahl is a gentle sort, normally. Though it's also clear that should someone threaten the bird, it was likely he'd take violent umbrage. It's in the way he moves, but he also edges closer to M and goes down on one knee, concern written on his face.]
Let him breathe, Gurbahl! You don't need to be in his face! [Not that he was truly in M's face--that would be too much of a challenge, especially for servant to Aion. Even if that Aion wasn't his. Still, he shuffles backwards awkwardly to give Makoto the space that Meteion demands of him. He's patient. He'll wait until the man is ready to move on his own, and just give support when needed. And it seems that Meteion is willing to wait for his strength to return, such as it is, as well.]
Do you want anything to eat after this? Even if it's something simple? I'm not sure how you feel about actual food, but I know that sort of thing is necessary to recover...
[Briefly, Meteion feels rather silly about it, but she shakes her head and offers the demon a smile. Even after everything, she has to be herself, and her concern is so clearly not feigned.]
( he's never had a wound so grievous before. or, well, no, that's not the case — he's never felt a wound feel so grievous. he's had his head removed nearly a half-dozen times at this point (at least one or two of those had been of his own accord), and he'd also been savagely bitten by the shade of J's mentor, but at the time he'd been a demon both bound and bolstered by the laws of hell. violence wouldn't be able to kill him. the pain could make one wish for death, certainly, but all he'd had to do was sew himself back together and all would be fine soon enough.
that doesn't feel like the case here. after he'd been stabbed, in the haze of shock and pain, he had felt his life ebbing away with the blood as it rushed to escape his body. he very well could have bled out. it's a bizarre thing to consider — in hell, he had been denied the ability to die, even if the pain of existing on was unbearable. and now... well, even if he did, his shard would remain, wouldn't it? he may not be shackled by the laws of hell, but he's traded them for that of being an Aion.
he shakes his head. ) No, no - it's fine. Sir, I appreciate your offer of aid. ( how much assistance does he need, indeed... he has to consider it for a moment before continuing. ) Please, if you would, just - lend me your arm so I can stand and walk. That should be enough.
( he already knows it's going to kill, but he feels like he could weather the physical pain in his chest better than the psychic pain of being bodily carried back to his chambers. he reaches out to take gurbahl's arm when extended, and he's easy enough to support; he barely seems to weigh anything at all. one standing, he takes a moment to adjust to his own two legs again, and then he indicates they can start walking toward the personal chambers. it's slow going, but they're on their way.
food... logically he knows he should eat something at some point, but the idea of doing so right now, with what feels like a riot of razor blades festering beneath and within his ribs, is perfectly abhorrent. ) Yes, but... not right now. ( he's not even sure what sort of internal damage he suffered. if there was any injury made to his gut, he feels he should give it some time to mend itself before eating anything. ) I'll send my retainer for something later. For now - I might just ask you stay nearby just in case I take an unexpected turn for the worse.
( he seems begrudging in that, but it seems like a necessity. he doesn't think it will happen, but...?? he's never really been this mortally fucked-up before. )
that doesn't feel like the case here. after he'd been stabbed, in the haze of shock and pain, he had felt his life ebbing away with the blood as it rushed to escape his body. he very well could have bled out. it's a bizarre thing to consider — in hell, he had been denied the ability to die, even if the pain of existing on was unbearable. and now... well, even if he did, his shard would remain, wouldn't it? he may not be shackled by the laws of hell, but he's traded them for that of being an Aion.
he shakes his head. ) No, no - it's fine. Sir, I appreciate your offer of aid. ( how much assistance does he need, indeed... he has to consider it for a moment before continuing. ) Please, if you would, just - lend me your arm so I can stand and walk. That should be enough.
( he already knows it's going to kill, but he feels like he could weather the physical pain in his chest better than the psychic pain of being bodily carried back to his chambers. he reaches out to take gurbahl's arm when extended, and he's easy enough to support; he barely seems to weigh anything at all. one standing, he takes a moment to adjust to his own two legs again, and then he indicates they can start walking toward the personal chambers. it's slow going, but they're on their way.
food... logically he knows he should eat something at some point, but the idea of doing so right now, with what feels like a riot of razor blades festering beneath and within his ribs, is perfectly abhorrent. ) Yes, but... not right now. ( he's not even sure what sort of internal damage he suffered. if there was any injury made to his gut, he feels he should give it some time to mend itself before eating anything. ) I'll send my retainer for something later. For now - I might just ask you stay nearby just in case I take an unexpected turn for the worse.
( he seems begrudging in that, but it seems like a necessity. he doesn't think it will happen, but...?? he's never really been this mortally fucked-up before. )
[Meteion is quick to shore up M's other side--she doesn't look like much, but the entelechy is enough to ensure walking straight, and hopefully, not making what wounds M has inside any worse. He might even have his arm leaned on her head, but if that's the case, she clearly doesn't mind.]
Okay. That is fair. I...don't really know how insides work, so...
[That admission has Meteion blushing, and Gurbahl, who had just nodded at M's gratitude--the big man seems to have realized making as little as possible of it was the right idea--well, he's laughing outright at his small lady. She just gives him a grin--clearly, they are friends as well as mistress and servant, which...isn't that just like the bird?]
I can stay close until you feel better. Gurbahl can go about his business--I figure the smaller your audience, the better you'll feel. Maybe you can sleep a little. I mean you no harm--in no way will I hurt you after I've done my best to fix you! I'll do my best to not annoy you, too.
[Meteion's aware that some people find her friendliness and general happiness...taxing, and when M is trying to rest and heal, her being quiet is probably the best thing she can do.]
Are there many doors left to your room? This is the proper hallway, isn't it?
Okay. That is fair. I...don't really know how insides work, so...
[That admission has Meteion blushing, and Gurbahl, who had just nodded at M's gratitude--the big man seems to have realized making as little as possible of it was the right idea--well, he's laughing outright at his small lady. She just gives him a grin--clearly, they are friends as well as mistress and servant, which...isn't that just like the bird?]
I can stay close until you feel better. Gurbahl can go about his business--I figure the smaller your audience, the better you'll feel. Maybe you can sleep a little. I mean you no harm--in no way will I hurt you after I've done my best to fix you! I'll do my best to not annoy you, too.
[Meteion's aware that some people find her friendliness and general happiness...taxing, and when M is trying to rest and heal, her being quiet is probably the best thing she can do.]
Are there many doors left to your room? This is the proper hallway, isn't it?
( meteion might not look like much, but fortunately makoto isn't much either, a slight slip of a demon that could scarcely weigh much more than a hundred pounds even soaking wet. she is gentle and careful enough that she doesn't cause him any undue discomfort, and this... is something he certainly notices. he's been in varying states of disarray ever since losing his head and becoming a demon, but he can't say he's ever been treated with delicacy. upon first removing his head, J had tucked it under his arm in the same breath that he had congratulated himself on a job well done. it has always been the demon's prerogative to impress upon makoto that he was essentially a possession of his, so the markedly different way that meteion helps him...
it's... strange. and not necessarily in a way that he interprets as good, though he probably should. instead he can't help but be a little mistrustful of it, like a dog which has been struck too many times to expect anything good from the movement of a person's hand.
still, he bares a grimace at her comment, deriving humor from some kind of inside joke. ) It's too bad - under different circumstances, I could have recommended you some books to help with that, if you were interested.
( his taste in literature while still human had been... macabre, to say the least.
as she continues, he has to stifle a laugh (and mostly because it hurts to laugh in a state like this). he shakes his head. ) You likely saved my life... I owe you at least some modicum of trust. ( and temperance, though he couldn't say he finds her annoying or anything? it's hard to be that petty about someone who just helped you avoid bleeding out on the floor.
they continue along, and he pauses in his steps a half-moment before nodding and indicating a door on the left a short distance ahead, ) Up there. Four doors down, on the left.
it's... strange. and not necessarily in a way that he interprets as good, though he probably should. instead he can't help but be a little mistrustful of it, like a dog which has been struck too many times to expect anything good from the movement of a person's hand.
still, he bares a grimace at her comment, deriving humor from some kind of inside joke. ) It's too bad - under different circumstances, I could have recommended you some books to help with that, if you were interested.
( his taste in literature while still human had been... macabre, to say the least.
as she continues, he has to stifle a laugh (and mostly because it hurts to laugh in a state like this). he shakes his head. ) You likely saved my life... I owe you at least some modicum of trust. ( and temperance, though he couldn't say he finds her annoying or anything? it's hard to be that petty about someone who just helped you avoid bleeding out on the floor.
they continue along, and he pauses in his steps a half-moment before nodding and indicating a door on the left a short distance ahead, ) Up there. Four doors down, on the left.
continued from here.
[ The platitudes Howl offered in response to Makoto's answer do not stand alone for long. Less than a minute later, he communes with the demon again, but this time the trail is silent and uncluttered, closed only to him. ]
That thing did something to you, didn't it?
[ A shot in the dark, but he doubts a creature capable of "smiting" its foes would have left M alone for what he did, and it's the only possible explanation for M's cryptic response. ]
[ The platitudes Howl offered in response to Makoto's answer do not stand alone for long. Less than a minute later, he communes with the demon again, but this time the trail is silent and uncluttered, closed only to him. ]
That thing did something to you, didn't it?
[ A shot in the dark, but he doubts a creature capable of "smiting" its foes would have left M alone for what he did, and it's the only possible explanation for M's cryptic response. ]
Edited 2022-05-31 17:03 (UTC)
( in many ways makoto is an open book about himself and his actions. but there are very specific topics that he is decidedly closed-lipped on; a defensive instinct, learned to guard his back from the sharp intentions of antagonistic demons.
anything that might be considered a weakness is one of these topics, and the affliction he currently finds himself with now... certainly feels like that.
but this is howl, and though he can't claim to trust the man perfectly, he feels like he understands him well enough not to immediately be on guard at the question.
there's an uneasy silence along the line of Communion, and then, in a tone measured to the point of almost sounding mechanical: ) When the creature attacked me, it attacked my shard. It grew so hot, I thought it would burn right through me. Before I lost consciousness, I felt something force its way into it. Whatever it was, it is still with me.
anything that might be considered a weakness is one of these topics, and the affliction he currently finds himself with now... certainly feels like that.
but this is howl, and though he can't claim to trust the man perfectly, he feels like he understands him well enough not to immediately be on guard at the question.
there's an uneasy silence along the line of Communion, and then, in a tone measured to the point of almost sounding mechanical: ) When the creature attacked me, it attacked my shard. It grew so hot, I thought it would burn right through me. Before I lost consciousness, I felt something force its way into it. Whatever it was, it is still with me.
[ As he suspected, then. But being right in this instance brings Howl no pleasure, only concern, and a distinct sense of dread that transfers along their connection. If what he'd briefly discussed with Binghe is true, this was no "creature" that has forced itself into M's Shard. And if it's still there — no. it had been fun. and yet, this dread. why?
Howl has half a mind to get up and seek M out in person, if only because the physical movement would help distract him from the conflicting emotions rising within his own Shard. But, no. He recognizes the defensiveness in the demon's answers to him. It's significant that M is telling him anything about it at all. ]
Who else knows about this?
Howl has half a mind to get up and seek M out in person, if only because the physical movement would help distract him from the conflicting emotions rising within his own Shard. But, no. He recognizes the defensiveness in the demon's answers to him. It's significant that M is telling him anything about it at all. ]
Who else knows about this?
( strangely enough, the connection prickles at the sense of the other's dread; it bares its fangs just a readily as if he had sensed something so offensive and purposeless as "pity."
he wants neither. as for the sense of impending doom, he has enough of his own. he doesn't need any of howl's layered onto it. )
Whoever has asked kindly enough to warrant an answer.
( it's an answer up to interpretation. it could be any number of people. it could be just howl. )
he wants neither. as for the sense of impending doom, he has enough of his own. he doesn't need any of howl's layered onto it. )
Whoever has asked kindly enough to warrant an answer.
( it's an answer up to interpretation. it could be any number of people. it could be just howl. )
[ Whether Makoto wants Howl's empathy or not, he gets it all the same. The wizard is taking this seriously; it is not a joke to him, or a game, or a thing to be jealous over. Nor is he particularly surprised to get this reaction from M, either. He is a demon, and while Howl knows M isn't the same as the demons he's familiar with, he can't help but treat him with the same sympathy.
So he sighs and takes a moment to think. A part of him wants to help if he can, especially if it might entice M to tell him more. But is there anything he can do for M? They have no idea what they're dealing with here. That thought sends another pang of frustration and anxiety through their connection. ]
I see.
[ As much as Howl hates to admit it, the Regent might be the best person to go to for help with this, but Howl certainly wouldn't ever do that if he were in M's shoes, and he would not tell the demon take that risk either. ]
I won't tell anyone.
So he sighs and takes a moment to think. A part of him wants to help if he can, especially if it might entice M to tell him more. But is there anything he can do for M? They have no idea what they're dealing with here. That thought sends another pang of frustration and anxiety through their connection. ]
I see.
[ As much as Howl hates to admit it, the Regent might be the best person to go to for help with this, but Howl certainly wouldn't ever do that if he were in M's shoes, and he would not tell the demon take that risk either. ]
I won't tell anyone.
Edited 2022-06-01 20:40 (UTC)
( it's difficult for makoto to trust anyone's empathy. that required, after all, a certain amount of understanding of the one they were attempting to empathize with, did it not? they shared circumstances as Aions aligned with the Kenoma, but how many layers of his typical veneer does one peer past before they start to become averse to what they find? some might be hasty to write it off that he's simply a demon, and that's only what one can expect, but he knows the truth — there's nothing in him now that hadn't already existed within him before J had taken him into hell. hell had just provided the fertile soil for those seeds to grow.
still, he gets the sense from howl that this isn't some entertainment to him. he isn't regarding his affliction as something either pathetic or well-deserved (or both). for his restraint, makoto is grateful.
he is right, though. there's not much to be done. though he's experienced the mechanics of what he assumes is the curse that thing put on him, he doesn't understand the greater picture of it yet. )
I appreciate the intent, but there's no need. I doubt it's something I can keep secret. Not for long, at least.
( both because of how the events of that evening were already being spread and the nature of the affliction itself. )
still, he gets the sense from howl that this isn't some entertainment to him. he isn't regarding his affliction as something either pathetic or well-deserved (or both). for his restraint, makoto is grateful.
he is right, though. there's not much to be done. though he's experienced the mechanics of what he assumes is the curse that thing put on him, he doesn't understand the greater picture of it yet. )
I appreciate the intent, but there's no need. I doubt it's something I can keep secret. Not for long, at least.
( both because of how the events of that evening were already being spread and the nature of the affliction itself. )
[ If he hadn't been stripped of two of his senses in quick succession, he would have gone to find Makoto himself after the worst of the hubbub had died down. Even the loss of one would have been surmountable, a stumbling stone instead of a complete roadblock, but he'd only be a risk to both himself and the rest of his teammates if he tried to strike out on his own like this.
Still, it feels wrong not to check in with the other man somehow, after all they'd been through—and especially after all Makoto had been through. If he can't find the other man in person, then he'll have to settle for a communion message instead, even if the thought of invading someone else's mind still makes him feel uneasy.
At least Makoto can always rebuff his message if he's not feeling in the mood. ]
This is Eustace. [ Obviously. ] I saw what happened. How are you feeling?
Still, it feels wrong not to check in with the other man somehow, after all they'd been through—and especially after all Makoto had been through. If he can't find the other man in person, then he'll have to settle for a communion message instead, even if the thought of invading someone else's mind still makes him feel uneasy.
At least Makoto can always rebuff his message if he's not feeling in the mood. ]
This is Eustace. [ Obviously. ] I saw what happened. How are you feeling?
( morbid fascination had called makoto to watch the memories that binghe and others had shared, grafting onto his own recollection of that event outside perspectives. it's bizarre to internalize, but it at the very least informs him of what had occurred after he had lost consciousness (for better and for worse). it's with this information and the knowledge that eustace had seemed primed to help get him out of that situation that he allows the message to reach him now. there were plenty of others that he might have turned away, but — it seems wrong to do so now, especially after he had already shrugged off the erune's help in the heat of the moment. )
I could ask the same of you.
( when that thing had appeared behind abel, going so far as to reach through him... others might question eustace's instinct to shoot it, but it only earns makoto's respect.
he makes his answer very carefully: ) I'm uninjured, as far as I can tell.
I could ask the same of you.
( when that thing had appeared behind abel, going so far as to reach through him... others might question eustace's instinct to shoot it, but it only earns makoto's respect.
he makes his answer very carefully: ) I'm uninjured, as far as I can tell.
[ The mass Communion which all Kenoma were able to tune into had been very informative. If not for the looser lips of his kindred Aions, there's no guarantee Makoto would have disclosed much if anything to J pertaining to the events which transpired after they parted ways in Venera. He'd not given an account of the details revolving around the stretches of time they'd been apart in times past, whatever other shades of unsavory (besides Kieran) that he'd come across during his tour of Hell's slums and, assuredly, places beyond where his nose had picked up traces of J's scent. And things haven't changed enough since his arrival to suddenly make Makoto more forthcoming- not with J, in any case.
Contrary to his ward's beliefs, J is and has always been respectful of choices made of his ward's own volition, such as his six-month excursion into his past or even those long years under Datenshou's employ. Provided those decisions don't interfere with his own plans. For now, Makoto's choice to remain sparse while others congregate in the plague's aftermath, coming together more closely after their traumatic excursion, is apparent but left momentarily uninterrupted by his master. The only exception is a letter on artisan parchment, with flecks of tiny pressed flower petals in muted pastel pinks and purples and rippled edges left untrimmed, that designate it as something handmade. The envelope it's nested within is neatly sealed with red wax atop two tails of gold ribbon that dangle below; its texture soft to the touch. ]
Makoto-dono,
I hear congratulations are in order on account of your most recent achievement.
How does it feel to kill a man not by means of signed contracts and sated desires-
But with your own hand?
In lieu of immediately commemorating this event, allow me to send you a small token to make use of as you will.
Consider it a temporary proxy, until at which time you find yourself in a more celebratory mood.
Sincerely Yours,
J
[ Ever cautious when the situation calls for it, J doesn't draw attention to this exchange or risk its examination by permitting his retainer to submit the missive directly. Hypothetically speaking, if J were the Regent, he'd make sure those assigned to care for the Aions were actually spies planted to monitor their every move. Not unlike how Fjord and Datenshou quietly ferreted information to him about Makoto, making it as though J himself were there to keep an eye on his wellbeing and orchestrate whatever needed to be done to maintain it while he was out of his physical scope.
Assuming the worst, taking into account the ease at which history has shown letters can be opened, read, and re-sealed without raising suspicion, he personally delivers the item, leaving it in front of Makoto's door as he happens to stroll by.
Tucked within the envelope, causing its unusual weight, is a single ornate key set on a chain of the same metal; both solid gold and forged with impeccable workmanship. Curiously enough, the key itself is too small for normal locks. While the delicate chain, with links practically light and uncumbersome as a spiderweb's thread, is surprisingly durable. It appears to be both the chain of a necklace or worn at the wrist once the length is looped around and latched to itself. The reason behind such versatility is not yet apparent, when it's only half of the final product. ]
Contrary to his ward's beliefs, J is and has always been respectful of choices made of his ward's own volition, such as his six-month excursion into his past or even those long years under Datenshou's employ. Provided those decisions don't interfere with his own plans. For now, Makoto's choice to remain sparse while others congregate in the plague's aftermath, coming together more closely after their traumatic excursion, is apparent but left momentarily uninterrupted by his master. The only exception is a letter on artisan parchment, with flecks of tiny pressed flower petals in muted pastel pinks and purples and rippled edges left untrimmed, that designate it as something handmade. The envelope it's nested within is neatly sealed with red wax atop two tails of gold ribbon that dangle below; its texture soft to the touch. ]
Makoto-dono,
I hear congratulations are in order on account of your most recent achievement.
How does it feel to kill a man not by means of signed contracts and sated desires-
But with your own hand?
In lieu of immediately commemorating this event, allow me to send you a small token to make use of as you will.
Consider it a temporary proxy, until at which time you find yourself in a more celebratory mood.
Sincerely Yours,
J
[ Ever cautious when the situation calls for it, J doesn't draw attention to this exchange or risk its examination by permitting his retainer to submit the missive directly. Hypothetically speaking, if J were the Regent, he'd make sure those assigned to care for the Aions were actually spies planted to monitor their every move. Not unlike how Fjord and Datenshou quietly ferreted information to him about Makoto, making it as though J himself were there to keep an eye on his wellbeing and orchestrate whatever needed to be done to maintain it while he was out of his physical scope.
Assuming the worst, taking into account the ease at which history has shown letters can be opened, read, and re-sealed without raising suspicion, he personally delivers the item, leaving it in front of Makoto's door as he happens to stroll by.
Tucked within the envelope, causing its unusual weight, is a single ornate key set on a chain of the same metal; both solid gold and forged with impeccable workmanship. Curiously enough, the key itself is too small for normal locks. While the delicate chain, with links practically light and uncumbersome as a spiderweb's thread, is surprisingly durable. It appears to be both the chain of a necklace or worn at the wrist once the length is looped around and latched to itself. The reason behind such versatility is not yet apparent, when it's only half of the final product. ]
[ ...Maybe M is right, but Howl feels compelled to push back on such defeatist thinking. Brainwashed as he is into remembering what happened to him as a necessary evil (at worst), his experiences have convinced him that actions can carry consequences in this world, and he has no idea what consequences may be in store for M if the Regent finds out his Shard is infected by none other than the Pleroma itself.
He sighs. ]
If I were you, I'd still endeavor to keep it to myself. If there's no need for others to know, then there's no reason to tell.
[ But surely, the opportunistic demon who bested Estinien is crafty enough to navigate that truth...? Unless. ]
...Unless you have reason to believe it will make itself known?
He sighs. ]
If I were you, I'd still endeavor to keep it to myself. If there's no need for others to know, then there's no reason to tell.
[ But surely, the opportunistic demon who bested Estinien is crafty enough to navigate that truth...? Unless. ]
...Unless you have reason to believe it will make itself known?
( oh, well, if this is about keeping all of this a secret from the Regent, then that's a bygone conclusion. even if it were his intention to keep it from their enigmatic master, he doubts he's even capable of such a thing. this is the entity that seems to read their pasts like open books, after all — surely word has already gotten to them. at this point, makoto feels it's inevitable that he will be brought forward to speak with them; he can only hope that it's a constructive conversation and not a destructive one. )
They all have the ability to pick apart the events and draw conclusions for themselves. That, and purposefully keeping mum will make it all the more obvious I have something to hide.
I do. I already know what it does.
( or one of the things it does, at least... )
They all have the ability to pick apart the events and draw conclusions for themselves. That, and purposefully keeping mum will make it all the more obvious I have something to hide.
I do. I already know what it does.
( or one of the things it does, at least... )
[ But you do have something to hide, Howl thinks to himself with a twinge of frustration. Who cares? What's the harm in others simply knowing you have a secret? Let them speculate. It's the secret getting out that Howl is more concerned about. Then it becomes leverage.
Even so, if M isn't worried about the truth getting out there, it's easy for Howl to ask the most obvious follow-up question. ]
...And what is it that it does?
Even so, if M isn't worried about the truth getting out there, it's easy for Howl to ask the most obvious follow-up question. ]
...And what is it that it does?
( oh, it's not that he isn't worried. he doesn't want others to know about this affliction of his any more than he wants it to rule his mind and his actions, but as far as he's concerned, it would be essentially impossible to keep hidden indefinitely.
for what it's worth, there's an obvious tugging sensation of hesitation — the reticence of a demon far too used to keeping everything close to the chest — but he does end up explaining. )
I can sense the pain of others around me, and it compels me to move closer to them. Once I've done that, it - activates something within me, and it begins to sap my strength in order to heal the injured individual.
I can resist it, but it's not... easy.
for what it's worth, there's an obvious tugging sensation of hesitation — the reticence of a demon far too used to keeping everything close to the chest — but he does end up explaining. )
I can sense the pain of others around me, and it compels me to move closer to them. Once I've done that, it - activates something within me, and it begins to sap my strength in order to heal the injured individual.
I can resist it, but it's not... easy.
( paradoxically, makoto least wants to see and speak about what happened with those closest to him. if things had gone differently, perhaps that would have been different. if he had killed estinien and managed to recover his shard or at the very least kill him and get away unscathed, he might have been emboldened enough to report his victory with crowing success to the other Kenoma (and none so much as J), but that hadn't been the end of the story, had it? it's public knowledge at this point that his small act of murder had upset some sort of greater entity, and it had punished him for it. it's only a temporary exile he imposes upon himself. he wants to gather his own thoughts, to come to terms with what he did and what happened and what happened to him completely before he presented himself before the judgment of the rest of their fellow Aions.
because they would. judge, that is. already he's seen and sensed his actions and intentions picked apart, and it brings with it a hideous and cloying sense of déjà vu. it's all too reminiscent of the worst parts of Earth, the parts that had driven him to trade his life away to a demon instead of continue to live it there. he hates the idea of others forcing him through their own pathetically narrow lenses of morality and decency. if he faced it now, it might push him over the edge and into doing or saying something that might be a little too incendiary a little too prematurely, so instead he tries to focus himself, possessed of the thought that if he's found that center he will be unshakable and unassailable even when falling beneath their prying gazes.
having temporarily dismissed his retainer, makoto comes across the letter left at his door when leaving to get food. having received no end to them when working for datenshou, he recognizes its sender by sight. side-tracked, he takes the letter inside, reads it and examines its contents, and spends several hours locked in thought.
it's not until a day or two has passed until a reply arrives much the same, left at J's door — a first, considering he had never sent a reply to any of his letters before. inside, written in makoto's extravagant hand: )
J,
Your congratulations are appreciated, considering they are largely absent in the cloud of noise hanging above the events that occurred toward the end of our stay in Venera.
I've spent some time thinking about your question, and I have decided that it's a difficult one to answer at this time.
Whatever thrill I might have felt at the manual dismantling of another's life was tarnished by two outside factors:
The first, of course, being what happened directly afterward.
The second in that no death in this place is a lasting one without the destruction or control of one's shard.
Despite these detractors, I aim to emerge from this set-back emboldened rather than cowed, so that I do not repeat these unfortunate mistakes.
Thank you for your gift.
I look forward to the day in which its purpose is revealed.
Yours sincerely,
M
( he had spent just as much time if not more trying to winnow from the words and the token J's intent both present and future, always driven near to mad to try to figure out the demon's ends and where he factored into them. as it is, however, there is relatively little he can do here and now. he ponders over his master's gift, turning the key and its chain over and over again in his hands, at war with himself for whether or not he wanted to spurn any gift out of past bitterness or cling to it for dear life, still starved for the love that he felt he had been falsely promised.
in the end, he keeps it on his person, just not where visible or expected. )
because they would. judge, that is. already he's seen and sensed his actions and intentions picked apart, and it brings with it a hideous and cloying sense of déjà vu. it's all too reminiscent of the worst parts of Earth, the parts that had driven him to trade his life away to a demon instead of continue to live it there. he hates the idea of others forcing him through their own pathetically narrow lenses of morality and decency. if he faced it now, it might push him over the edge and into doing or saying something that might be a little too incendiary a little too prematurely, so instead he tries to focus himself, possessed of the thought that if he's found that center he will be unshakable and unassailable even when falling beneath their prying gazes.
having temporarily dismissed his retainer, makoto comes across the letter left at his door when leaving to get food. having received no end to them when working for datenshou, he recognizes its sender by sight. side-tracked, he takes the letter inside, reads it and examines its contents, and spends several hours locked in thought.
it's not until a day or two has passed until a reply arrives much the same, left at J's door — a first, considering he had never sent a reply to any of his letters before. inside, written in makoto's extravagant hand: )
J,
Your congratulations are appreciated, considering they are largely absent in the cloud of noise hanging above the events that occurred toward the end of our stay in Venera.
I've spent some time thinking about your question, and I have decided that it's a difficult one to answer at this time.
Whatever thrill I might have felt at the manual dismantling of another's life was tarnished by two outside factors:
The first, of course, being what happened directly afterward.
The second in that no death in this place is a lasting one without the destruction or control of one's shard.
Despite these detractors, I aim to emerge from this set-back emboldened rather than cowed, so that I do not repeat these unfortunate mistakes.
Thank you for your gift.
I look forward to the day in which its purpose is revealed.
Yours sincerely,
M
( he had spent just as much time if not more trying to winnow from the words and the token J's intent both present and future, always driven near to mad to try to figure out the demon's ends and where he factored into them. as it is, however, there is relatively little he can do here and now. he ponders over his master's gift, turning the key and its chain over and over again in his hands, at war with himself for whether or not he wanted to spurn any gift out of past bitterness or cling to it for dear life, still starved for the love that he felt he had been falsely promised.
in the end, he keeps it on his person, just not where visible or expected. )
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