[If the dead rise again, not as mindless puppets but as whole recreated versions of themselves, will they embrace Sonya? Will they tell Kanon that she mattered?
In the end it does seem hypocritical, doesn't it? Waltaquin doesn't flinch away from Psyche's hand, tears fresh on her face without an expression to match it. Her head and her heart feel a billion different things.]
I don't care if you carry it for me. [The words are dismissive but the intention behind it, she knows without a doubt now, the violence and kindness of giving Psyche this choice, is loving.] Tell the others if you need to. See if they will still allow me my part in Merlin's gambit. ... I wouldn't have found you so interesting, Psyche, if I ever thought you were too weak.
I want this to be finished. Is this person speaking to you now even myself? [When she closes her eyes there is nothing there but incomprehensible and unspeakable horror. That dark flame that guided her and ate and ate and ate at the altar of souls is going to lose against them. But, she too, is self-important. She will not lie down and die. She will not be caged. She will be reckless until she burns up, like gunpowder, not a star after all.]
[ She's never been able to stand the sight of other people's pain. Eros used his tears as a weapon, but Waltaquin... she's been wrong about Waltaquin. But she knows, with certainty, that this isn't something she could fake. She completes the motion to bring her palm gently to Waltaquin's cheek and wipes those tears with careful fingertips.
She doesn't know what it means; she doubts even Waltaquin does. What a strange burden it must be to carry, from the flicker of what she understands of Waltaquin's emotions from their shared memory. ]
...No. I won't pass it to someone else. I refuse.
[ What would that do to Xiao, to Crea? To Lacus? Knowing how they'd reacted to Nona's death, they all deserve the truth. But if that truth would keep them from seeing this through to the end and bringing everyone back, then what a pointless gesture that would be. Is that sophistry? Or is wanting to run to the others cowardice? She doesn't know. But the sense of resolve in her choice is a near enough substitute for courage.
She draws in a breath again. Slow, steady. Wait. Hope. ]
We're almost there, Waltaquin. Just a little further. What do I need to do, to keep you here?
[She is right about that much, at least. Waltaquin cannot fake sentiment well, and she might have seen it here or there when she pretended to be bothered by something and yet could not contain her delight.
To be forced to cry is invasive but it is genuine. Psyche's hand reaches her cheek and she lets it rest there. To be sorry would be to lie, but she feels something.]
... My necromancy may not be of much use in the coming days. [That seems to make it worse; the memory of a shrieking, bodiless body that wants to eat her heart and peel her skin from her body.] It feels as if too much has been put inside of me. [One horrible eroding scream in a million voices, forever, at the front of her brain.] So, you might find some way to quiet me, somehow.
[After a moment of sitting like this, Waltaquin takes Psyche's hand from her cheek and squeezes it in her own naked one a little too hard. Then she stands and walks a little ways into the ocean, where she can rest out flat. It had been calling.]
The last time we spoke she passed charge of you to my care. If it comes to it, let her reclaim her abdicated role. [She trusts it's clear. If it comes to it, let it be someone like Medea. Not Crea, who would make her feel so empty. Not someone like Wei Wuxian, who could have been her.]
[ One step at a time. She watches Waltaquin's expression with a strange sense of serenity settling over her again. Even she doesn't know if she's just been hollowed out, or if this is peace, but the crushing pressure has finally eased its grip on her throat.
She has direction. She can do this. She gives Waltaquin a little nod. ]
I don't know that I'm precise enough with my healing for that. I can try. Otherwise... I may have to ask Doctor Baizhu. I can think of a reasonable excuse.
[ Really, if Baizhu has something that would settle nerves, it would hardly need to be excused at this point. Psyche squeezes Waltaquin's fingers in hers briefly — and when Waltaquin pulls away, she lets her go easily.
Practice already, perhaps.
But she gets to her feet to follow unhurriedly, staring out at the ocean and Waltaquin, adrift. It's the only conversation she'd ever had with Nona, isn't it? That she loved the ocean. She kicks off her sandals and walks into the waves, knowing it for an empty gesture even as she does it. But empty doesn't mean pointless. With a quiet sigh she lets herself fall back to float near Waltaquin. Not touching, though in her imagination, the ripple of the waves carries something intangible between them. ]
...Her, and not me? [ Is it even possible that there's a smile in her voice now? Even she couldn't explain it, any more than Waltaquin could explain the earlier tears. ] I promise. And... I think she'll understand.
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In the end it does seem hypocritical, doesn't it? Waltaquin doesn't flinch away from Psyche's hand, tears fresh on her face without an expression to match it. Her head and her heart feel a billion different things.]
I don't care if you carry it for me. [The words are dismissive but the intention behind it, she knows without a doubt now, the violence and kindness of giving Psyche this choice, is loving.] Tell the others if you need to. See if they will still allow me my part in Merlin's gambit. ... I wouldn't have found you so interesting, Psyche, if I ever thought you were too weak.
I want this to be finished. Is this person speaking to you now even myself? [When she closes her eyes there is nothing there but incomprehensible and unspeakable horror. That dark flame that guided her and ate and ate and ate at the altar of souls is going to lose against them. But, she too, is self-important. She will not lie down and die. She will not be caged. She will be reckless until she burns up, like gunpowder, not a star after all.]
no subject
She doesn't know what it means; she doubts even Waltaquin does. What a strange burden it must be to carry, from the flicker of what she understands of Waltaquin's emotions from their shared memory. ]
...No. I won't pass it to someone else. I refuse.
[ What would that do to Xiao, to Crea? To Lacus? Knowing how they'd reacted to Nona's death, they all deserve the truth. But if that truth would keep them from seeing this through to the end and bringing everyone back, then what a pointless gesture that would be. Is that sophistry? Or is wanting to run to the others cowardice? She doesn't know. But the sense of resolve in her choice is a near enough substitute for courage.
She draws in a breath again. Slow, steady. Wait. Hope. ]
We're almost there, Waltaquin. Just a little further. What do I need to do, to keep you here?
no subject
To be forced to cry is invasive but it is genuine. Psyche's hand reaches her cheek and she lets it rest there. To be sorry would be to lie, but she feels something.]
... My necromancy may not be of much use in the coming days. [That seems to make it worse; the memory of a shrieking, bodiless body that wants to eat her heart and peel her skin from her body.] It feels as if too much has been put inside of me. [One horrible eroding scream in a million voices, forever, at the front of her brain.] So, you might find some way to quiet me, somehow.
[After a moment of sitting like this, Waltaquin takes Psyche's hand from her cheek and squeezes it in her own naked one a little too hard. Then she stands and walks a little ways into the ocean, where she can rest out flat. It had been calling.]
The last time we spoke she passed charge of you to my care. If it comes to it, let her reclaim her abdicated role. [She trusts it's clear. If it comes to it, let it be someone like Medea. Not Crea, who would make her feel so empty. Not someone like Wei Wuxian, who could have been her.]
no subject
She has direction. She can do this. She gives Waltaquin a little nod. ]
I don't know that I'm precise enough with my healing for that. I can try. Otherwise... I may have to ask Doctor Baizhu. I can think of a reasonable excuse.
[ Really, if Baizhu has something that would settle nerves, it would hardly need to be excused at this point. Psyche squeezes Waltaquin's fingers in hers briefly — and when Waltaquin pulls away, she lets her go easily.
Practice already, perhaps.
But she gets to her feet to follow unhurriedly, staring out at the ocean and Waltaquin, adrift. It's the only conversation she'd ever had with Nona, isn't it? That she loved the ocean. She kicks off her sandals and walks into the waves, knowing it for an empty gesture even as she does it. But empty doesn't mean pointless. With a quiet sigh she lets herself fall back to float near Waltaquin. Not touching, though in her imagination, the ripple of the waves carries something intangible between them. ]
...Her, and not me? [ Is it even possible that there's a smile in her voice now? Even she couldn't explain it, any more than Waltaquin could explain the earlier tears. ] I promise. And... I think she'll understand.