[ You sit on a throne on a raised dais as you watch the criminals led one by one to the guillotine. You feel ill; but you make very certain none of that shows in your eyes, your solemn expression, your hands resting calmly in your lap. As crown princess you could still speak up to petition for mercy. Eros at your side would overrule you, of course. But you could make the gesture.
You do not. It is not because it would be futile, although it would be. It is because you cannot argue that this is any more or less than these people deserve. And because she asked you to trust her.
Medea approaches the throne now, nearly close enough to touch. The sunset makes a glory of her dark hair and the gems adorning it. And her smile is perfectly serene, even though it is now her father whose head is being laid on the block. Her words are to Eros, not to you; you know she is as keenly aware of you there as you are of her, but neither of you can be seen to show it, even if the weight of your earlier argument still presses down on your chest like stone.
"I know he is a criminal, but he is still my father. Please permit me to say goodbye."
Eros grants it, of course. Has he gotten worse at hiding from you how much such things excite him, or are you getting more attentive? It doesn't matter. In this moment, all that matters is Medea. Her strides are firm and confident as she climbs the steps of the execution stage. It has always been like this. The instant Medea Solon steps into a space, there is never any doubt who is in command, even as she kneels before the bound man to speak softly.
You can't hear her from this distance — but you know her, you know what it is to be Medea better than anyone save her. These words are truly a farewell. She will wield them like a knife. You can't hear her, but the former Duke Solon is not nearly so controlled. All the crowd hears his outburst.
"I'm sorry!! Please forgive me!! I'll apologize for everything!! It's my fault, I was wrong, give your father one more chance—"
You have never seen Medea slip before. She always shows precisely what she needs those around her to perceive. But when she lifts a hand to her mouth and begins to laugh, you know too: this was not her calculation. This is truly, deeply, how she feels, given vent in the only way she can. And when that same hand gestures for the executioner to proceed, you hurt for her because she will never permit such a feeling in herself, even as her father's final words follow her off the stage.
"You're a demon!!" ]
Edited (quin deserves a visual) 2023-06-14 18:15 (UTC)
[It's the satisfying completion of the blade sliding home that jolts her from the memory, and Waltaquin's hand twitches slightly, the first indication that she's been jerked back into the present moment. They're close enough that Psyche likely feels the jostle.
It's bracing to have a face to put to a name. Somehow, she looked exactly as Waltaquin expected, down to the stark dark contrast she presents to Psyche's light. From what she's seen, the feedback from the sights and sounds and feelings of that late afternoon, she can see now what a formidable figure the woman Psyche knows best in the world cuts.
As for Haleg Lyn... What is there to say? The memory is as clear now, decades later, as it was back then.]
I see there was merit to your comparison after all...though I must say I'm flattered, heh.
[Her laugh is more a breath tacked on as a full stop to the sentence then anything completely filled with glee.]
[ Psyche is taking a moment longer to recover from her own glimpse into Haleg Lyn. That terrible emptiness, the loneliness that stretches out with no end. A child's nameless fear at being touched by a stranger like that. The power lashing out...
She gives a shuddering sigh and leans against Waltaquin, wrapping her arms around her for a moment. Does touch make it worse right now? It's still Psyche's first reflex after seeing memories like that of her own. ]
Waltaquin... [ Where does she even begin with that? ] ...Even now, you're a little like her. She'd be calm after seeing something like this too.
[If there was something still left to make worse, then touch might do it, foreign as it is to her. She does - flinch? - she twitches, anyway, but nothing comes of it, and she doesn't pull away.
With Psyche this close, she might notice that even Waltaquin's heartrate has accelerated, though its pace is confused by what should be exciting it. Is it the memory of that cold fear at being touched, the exhilaration after he was gone? Is it the thrill of seeing Medea, really, not presenting, the way she though she'd caught a glimpse of that night in the kitchen?]
Clever of her. What else is there to do? [No sense in getting worked up about it. There's nothing to fear or worry about here. Her gloved hand slides to Psyche's elbow.]
They sent me back home, after that. Always trying to make their dark secrets disappear.
[ Ah... Psyche feels that flinch and eases back just a little, her expression softening in worry. She doesn't go far. It's so hard for them to understand each other sometimes — and small wonder, seeing why, two people who each find other people strange and incomprehensible in their own ways.
But Waltaquin is still touching her elbow, so while she withdraws the confining constraint of the hug, she still leans a little against her so Waltaquin knows that Psyche isn't pulling away from her. ]
Home... wasn't any better, was it? That memory of your father. [ Not bad in the same way as Haleg Lyn. A different emptiness. Psyche worries a little at her lip. ] ...I said you were like Medea, but... we're a little alike, too. My parents hid me away. I think... in their own way, they were frightened of me, too.
[And she sounds genuinely contemplative, as if there's never been any thought in her mind as to whether one or the other was better or worse or as if she has considered whether or not it's right to hold it against anyone who didn't know how to handle her. People have roles they interact with, and those motions are all part of it.]
Around this time I decided I had no intention of ever being locked away. My power's mine, and I can use it as I want. So, in a way, I was free. [And still lonely, it feels like, but in a shattered way where lonely suddenly did not matter.] When he did die, I didn't know how to react. [It's not a confession. It isn't guilty.]
You can heal people and you can harm them, so of course that's something to fear... What it actually means is you can harm them.
[ Psyche closes her eyes again for a moment, although she hardly needs to in order to recall Waltaquin's memory with almost painful, vivid clarity. ]
I'm sorry. That he wasn't a better father to you. I know there's no point regretting it, and no way to go back. It's just... unfair.
[ Like for Medea. And maybe it sounds trivial or childish to complain about fairness, but it's still true. Medea deserved better, and so did Waltaquin. She lets out a slow, thoughtful sigh. ]
Even if I only had healing, it's still... something strange and unnatural, in my world. People are afraid of things they can't understand, aren't they? I'm not sure if I could blame anyone for that. If someone saw me heal after being stabbed in the heart, it would be normal for them to think that I'm a monster, wouldn't it? Maybe it amounts to the same thing.
[Psyche is doing the same thing she did in that memory, maybe: letting herself feel things for others in their place. Waltaquin perhaps is no longer empty as she felt before unlocking her power at Haleg Lyn, but a pot with a hole doesn't hold water well.]
I don't need your apology. [It's not a reprimand, but - reassurance, in the only way Waltaquin can really provide it.]
The way you're talking... Do you feel like a monster? [People look at her as if she is one, but she's never felt that for herself. Though she can't imagine the same loathing and distrust that followed her, from Father and Shivat and Iscarion and all the others, levied at Psyche in the same way, it doesn't surprise her. Fear of the unknown Medea in that memory was a monster to everyone who saw her, except the ones who understood.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
UNHINGED IS WHAT WE AND THEY DESERVE: a present for quin
[ You sit on a throne on a raised dais as you watch the criminals led one by one to the guillotine. You feel ill; but you make very certain none of that shows in your eyes, your solemn expression, your hands resting calmly in your lap. As crown princess you could still speak up to petition for mercy. Eros at your side would overrule you, of course. But you could make the gesture.
You do not. It is not because it would be futile, although it would be. It is because you cannot argue that this is any more or less than these people deserve. And because she asked you to trust her.
Medea approaches the throne now, nearly close enough to touch. The sunset makes a glory of her dark hair and the gems adorning it. And her smile is perfectly serene, even though it is now her father whose head is being laid on the block. Her words are to Eros, not to you; you know she is as keenly aware of you there as you are of her, but neither of you can be seen to show it, even if the weight of your earlier argument still presses down on your chest like stone.
"I know he is a criminal, but he is still my father. Please permit me to say goodbye."
Eros grants it, of course. Has he gotten worse at hiding from you how much such things excite him, or are you getting more attentive? It doesn't matter. In this moment, all that matters is Medea. Her strides are firm and confident as she climbs the steps of the execution stage. It has always been like this. The instant Medea Solon steps into a space, there is never any doubt who is in command, even as she kneels before the bound man to speak softly.
You can't hear her from this distance — but you know her, you know what it is to be Medea better than anyone save her. These words are truly a farewell. She will wield them like a knife. You can't hear her, but the former Duke Solon is not nearly so controlled. All the crowd hears his outburst.
"I'm sorry!! Please forgive me!! I'll apologize for everything!! It's my fault, I was wrong, give your father one more chance—"
You have never seen Medea slip before. She always shows precisely what she needs those around her to perceive. But when she lifts a hand to her mouth and begins to laugh, you know too: this was not her calculation. This is truly, deeply, how she feels, given vent in the only way she can. And when that same hand gestures for the executioner to proceed, you hurt for her because she will never permit such a feeling in herself, even as her father's final words follow her off the stage.
"You're a demon!!" ]
no subject
It's bracing to have a face to put to a name. Somehow, she looked exactly as Waltaquin expected, down to the stark dark contrast she presents to Psyche's light. From what she's seen, the feedback from the sights and sounds and feelings of that late afternoon, she can see now what a formidable figure the woman Psyche knows best in the world cuts.
As for Haleg Lyn... What is there to say? The memory is as clear now, decades later, as it was back then.]
I see there was merit to your comparison after all...though I must say I'm flattered, heh.
[Her laugh is more a breath tacked on as a full stop to the sentence then anything completely filled with glee.]
no subject
She gives a shuddering sigh and leans against Waltaquin, wrapping her arms around her for a moment. Does touch make it worse right now? It's still Psyche's first reflex after seeing memories like that of her own. ]
Waltaquin... [ Where does she even begin with that? ] ...Even now, you're a little like her. She'd be calm after seeing something like this too.
no subject
With Psyche this close, she might notice that even Waltaquin's heartrate has accelerated, though its pace is confused by what should be exciting it. Is it the memory of that cold fear at being touched, the exhilaration after he was gone? Is it the thrill of seeing Medea, really, not presenting, the way she though she'd caught a glimpse of that night in the kitchen?]
Clever of her. What else is there to do? [No sense in getting worked up about it. There's nothing to fear or worry about here. Her gloved hand slides to Psyche's elbow.]
They sent me back home, after that. Always trying to make their dark secrets disappear.
no subject
But Waltaquin is still touching her elbow, so while she withdraws the confining constraint of the hug, she still leans a little against her so Waltaquin knows that Psyche isn't pulling away from her. ]
Home... wasn't any better, was it? That memory of your father. [ Not bad in the same way as Haleg Lyn. A different emptiness. Psyche worries a little at her lip. ] ...I said you were like Medea, but... we're a little alike, too. My parents hid me away. I think... in their own way, they were frightened of me, too.
no subject
[And she sounds genuinely contemplative, as if there's never been any thought in her mind as to whether one or the other was better or worse or as if she has considered whether or not it's right to hold it against anyone who didn't know how to handle her. People have roles they interact with, and those motions are all part of it.]
Around this time I decided I had no intention of ever being locked away. My power's mine, and I can use it as I want. So, in a way, I was free. [And still lonely, it feels like, but in a shattered way where lonely suddenly did not matter.] When he did die, I didn't know how to react. [It's not a confession. It isn't guilty.]
You can heal people and you can harm them, so of course that's something to fear... What it actually means is you can harm them.
no subject
I'm sorry. That he wasn't a better father to you. I know there's no point regretting it, and no way to go back. It's just... unfair.
[ Like for Medea. And maybe it sounds trivial or childish to complain about fairness, but it's still true. Medea deserved better, and so did Waltaquin. She lets out a slow, thoughtful sigh. ]
Even if I only had healing, it's still... something strange and unnatural, in my world. People are afraid of things they can't understand, aren't they? I'm not sure if I could blame anyone for that. If someone saw me heal after being stabbed in the heart, it would be normal for them to think that I'm a monster, wouldn't it? Maybe it amounts to the same thing.
no subject
I don't need your apology. [It's not a reprimand, but - reassurance, in the only way Waltaquin can really provide it.]
The way you're talking... Do you feel like a monster? [People look at her as if she is one, but she's never felt that for herself. Though she can't imagine the same loathing and distrust that followed her, from Father and Shivat and Iscarion and all the others, levied at Psyche in the same way, it doesn't surprise her. Fear of the unknown Medea in that memory was a monster to everyone who saw her, except the ones who understood.]