[ The letter had taken Psyche a truly long time to write, and Medea a considerable time to read and respond. She sits in quiet contemplation for a little while even after that, staring at nothing in particular. What a tangle of circumstances. What a way to finally get some modicum of explanation out of Psyche...
The thought makes her laugh, softly, as she finally gets to her feet. Even she can't fully explain the mood seizing her as she slides the star-shaped mood ring from Psyche's finger and replaces it with another ring, carefully kept. Does this make it too easy? She half wonders if something in Waltaquin would know her at a glance without such a signal. The challenge might be unfair in the current circumstances, and besides... If she intends to give a proper answer, she may as well dress for the occasion. With that thought in mind she sets out to look for her quarry. ]
[It's never quiet. There are constant, clamoring nightmares, and yet each horror only serves to reinforce something else. It is the constant, pulsating reminder of not being alone. It therefore can't be said they met again in quieter circumstances. Such a thing has been impossible for a while - and perhaps always was and will be, for people like them.
She makes herself neither difficult nor easy to find, hovering at the poolside bar for one final drink. Better to not be sedated tomorrow, and imbibing too much will make her too sleepy, but one is fine.
When Medea does catch her quarry, Waltaquin watches the way she carries herself in the dim night light. Even without her head being filled with the resonance of vengeful screaming, she wouldn't be able to tell at first. So she watches, pondering her gait and her expression and her hands.]
Hahahahaha, is this sentimentality I spy from you, or just a signal?
Did I strike you as the sentimental type? I wonder how that memory of hers painted me.
[ Of all of the things for Waltaquin to have seen... Medea takes a seat, folding her hands on the bar as she looks over at Waltaquin thoughtfully. How does she read the expression of a woman she's only met twice, once at a time when she now knows she may have no longer been truly herself?
Well. She's never balked at a challenge. ]
You have strange taste, to request an executioner who mocks her victim in their last moments. Is this remorse, or do monsters find company in their kin, do you think?
[Waltaquin drinks and then slides her own cup toward Medea. They've met often enough ("met," as if their acquaintance has stretched on for so long. It doesn't feel the length it really was) over the matter of poisoners that the gesture is cheeky as much as it is genuine offer.]
It isn't remorse. [That much she says quickly, with complete certainty.] I make no apologies for anything I have done.
[There is humiliation there, for playing into the trap laid by their captors and for initiating a plan that gained nothing for herself. Ah, but that isn't entirely true. She did gain something, knowledge she intimately needed but had not sought, now boiling in her like the ocean beyond the islands.
[ Medea raises an eyebrow, studying the cup with amusement. And then she laughs and reaches over to accept, taking a sip. ]
Good. I might think it an insult to the sacrifice you offered up if you felt otherwise.
[ She circles her fingertip along the rim of the cup before pushing it back towards Waltaquin. There's a strangely companionable feeling to this, as if they have known each other longer. Psyche certainly made an attempt, this time. ]
Would you be surprised to hear I seldom hunt for sport? But I do believe in honoring my promises. [ Absentmindedly, she taps her fingers on the surface of the bar again. ] Necromancy, is it? Most people can only hope to have the death they inflict truly serve their purposes as they intend.
[She watches Medea's finger circle the lip of the glass intently, noticeably. It would be easy to do it just like that, now, here. They both understand that. It is a part of the game. So, making eye contact, she drinks again, returns the glass. Trust, perhaps - or something else.
If Medea doesn't often hunt for sport, Waltaquin thinks that must at least partially be because she has little time for hobbies. At the very least, this last meeting between them can be fun.]
A little, albeit not as surprised to hear you calling it a promise now, heheh. [Waltaquin's few promises are made in darkness at the edge of the abyss. Medea has no need of them.
But here they both are.]
I don't just raise my dead, you know - though it is most efficient when accumulating souls.
[ How often has she had a sparring partner like this? Someone who actually sees her as a threat and reads the unspoken current of potential moves, a finger's breadth away but still unchosen?
A tiny smile tugs at a corner of her mouth as she accepts the glass in return. ]
It's true that it isn't like me to let someone else make moves on my behalf. But I suppose we can consider the circumstances exceptional.
[ She has no interest in unraveling her own motives, for either herself or Waltaquin. Idly, she takes another sip. ]
And how does that work? Will you indulge my curiosity, while we have a little time? It's something I've wondered before. But Psyche's powers don't extend to those already gone.
[Hadn't Psyche said something similar the other night? That right now, she's not interested in being a piece played by others. Ah, the circumstances really are extraordinary, indeed, for her to have grown in this way so their positions are not dissimilar.]
It's exciting, isn't it? Hahaha, I loathe the position I've been put in, and yet I can't say it hasn't been without its thrills.
[Kept in a cage, she cannot thrive... especially now that her mind contains even more things that weren't meant to be barred within such a container. Waltaquin leans, chin in hand, and chafes her gloved fingers against her cheek.]
She told you her memory, so she might have recounted mine? Then again, she might have tried to keep some privacy between us. If not, I'll tell you some other time. [That there is likely not to be, they both should know.] The dead often linger in the energy left behind...resentment at their slaughter, anger at all they did not accomplish, betrayal of the world. Necromancy is to pull this thread and bend them to serve.
[ Medea's lips twitch in some self-directed amusement. A point for Psyche — would that her earlier letters had been so thorough. Although Medea herself isn't immune to the allure of a challenge. ]
A shrewd guess. She said she preferred to keep your confidences. Is she simple for you to understand?
[ Not a question she's in any urgency to have answered. For a rarity, they have time. And in a sense the subject is mere personal curiosity now. She takes her sip and offers the glass back to Waltaquin, trade for trade. ]
So you make a puppet of them? Is there consciousness, or merely the husk of a body? In either case the utility is clear enough. You would be the envy of more than one king, I think.
Here and there. [Waltaquin lets the non-answer sit there a moment the length of time it takes her to drink and to contemplate the depths of the liquid.] If I understood her entirely, I'd have thrown her out right away.
[For all that they're the words of a detached a cruel person, a child who breaks toys and throws them away for being broken, it's said with a tone of fond attachment. Perhaps at the start, she'd thought Psyche less than she really was. It had changed quickly enough. Psyche does have her way.]
The soul must still linger so they can be called... But I don't really think of it that way. They are under my command. Just bones and tissue sucked dry of ought else. [Just meat. Her mind quivers a little but stays standing.] Even kings fear this kind of sorcery.
What about you? [She holds the glass out to be taken rather than sliding it along this time.] To your envy?
[ Medea laughs, sharp and unfeigned, as though the sound has been startled out of her. ] Ah... I begin to understand why she called you "honest."
[ An almost comical assessment, but not without basis. The corner of her mouth lifts in wry acknowledgment of the contrast, and of Waltaquin's tone. She reaches for the glass again, allowing her fingers to barely brush Waltaquin's in curiosity. ]
Are you asking my personal opinion? Or what it would be, as empress? Because I would find my reign rather shameful if it continued to produce such a volume of corpses for one such as you to make use of.
[The unrehearsed nature of the laugh in turn forces a little smile out of Waltaquin. It's the same as she saw in that memory: a sharp edge that has been honed but not polished. This is the sort of response she craves the most.]
I wonder just how much one is forced to adhere to the other. [Surely more than once Medea has sacrificed her own beliefs for the sake of what she wants. As far as Waltaquin is concerned, that simply won't do. She wants to hear the other side of it, too, what that predator would say out of instinct. Her fingers twitch at the hand-off. For a moment, it seems as if she might brush the backs of her knuckles further down Medea's hand and forearm, but she doesn't.]
A firm hand releases few strays. [There are plenty of corpses still ahead on Medea's road, she thinks, even if not at the end of it.] So you think you'd be bored of me after you had what you wanted? That is, assuming you had need for my talents in the first place.
[ Ah, so she can make that sort of expression as well. Medea watches with some interest, shifting her hold on the glass enough for the metal of the ring to clink delicately against it. ] And what would you infer, from your impression of me? I'm curious to hear as well.
[ And further curious if it would differ from her own answer, which would have been excruciatingly clear to her once. No matter. She has no intention of becoming the sort of person who doesn't understand herself. She gives a thoughtful little hum as she takes a sip, carefully moderate. It would be embarrassing to misjudge Psyche's smaller stature. ]
Oh, I suspect you would find your own ways of holding my interest. False modesty doesn't suit you. [ A need, hm... just for that, Medea takes a second sip before setting the glass down, not yet releasing it. ] I should ask the same in turn. You don't think my interests would conflict with your pursuit of your research?
[Waltaquin laughs, moving her hand in front of her mouth in polite observation. The sound is true though the movements themselves are a story: She is accustomed to the coquetry of dealing with the nobility and respects Medea enough to not play those games at the moment. False modesty certainly doesn't suit her.]
It's my impression that both are true to yourself in some capacity. One would die without the other. [That doesn't mean she has to be happy about it - about the Medea who would put fetters on herself to obtain what she wished. And yet Medea is now holding her glass hostage. She must be pressing on something. Waltaquin lowers her hand, a small pout replacing her mirth. That's hers to see returned, now.]
Well, any research is improved with the support of a wealthy patron. I imagine a conqueror is glad for the support of an ally they do not publicly name, and a tyrant is glad for a specter they can accuse. And your shame would presuppose that all nations are not already built on a veritable foundation of bones. [Meat and blood and screams and corpses as the soil and the stone...]
You're correct. [ As if she's offering a reward for the little game they're playing, she releases her hold on the glass and withdraws her hand slightly. ] My ambition is my own. If I did not desire the role, I would remake it to fit my liking.
[ Therefore, the constraints of being empress are ones she inherently accepts. The choices she makes in that capacity are to support her own vision of it.
She arches an eyebrow slightly as she contemplates Waltaquin's pout and their progress through the contents of the glass. She has no intention of becoming fussy now, nor of questioning the effects on the sedatives she's aware Waltaquin must still be taking. It's simply one more piece of information she's gathering. ]
I cherish no illusions about the nature of a nation, let alone an empire. There will be more deaths before I'm finished. And after, certainly. But it would be inconvenient for me if they were carelessly chosen. [ "Careless" is not how she would describe Waltaquin. Neither is "easy to control," however. Which should be stifling her smile, but... ] You would make it more difficult to play another card I've gone through some pains to obtain. How much of an asset do you believe yourself to be, Waltaquin Redditch?
Hehe... hahahaha! [Her laugh cuts through the night, as harsh and disruptive as the warping noises that cascade over the entire archipelago. The reflection of that bigger, deeper, darker sea is there, just beneath it - restrained, perhaps, or just a part of her now.]
If you have to ask when you might easily ascertain elsewhere, how do you think that bodes? I can't believe you'd expect me to sell myself to you. [Least of all because Medea wouldn't buy what she made so easy. Though even in her response, it should be easy to get a sense of her own opinion of herself. Waltaquin would much rather be given approval than cajole it. In testament to this, she doesn't reach for the glass right away even though Medea's relinquished her hold on it.]
We'll have to see. What's this other card of yours? Regardless of the value of the move, shouldn't you chase any opportunity to have fun playing it? [Part of this game, too, is the shared knowledge that they really might never meet again. Each time could be the last. It really doesn't matter if they desire differently. Isn't that absurdly frustrating?]
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week 6, thursday evening
The thought makes her laugh, softly, as she finally gets to her feet. Even she can't fully explain the mood seizing her as she slides the star-shaped mood ring from Psyche's finger and replaces it with another ring, carefully kept. Does this make it too easy? She half wonders if something in Waltaquin would know her at a glance without such a signal. The challenge might be unfair in the current circumstances, and besides... If she intends to give a proper answer, she may as well dress for the occasion. With that thought in mind she sets out to look for her quarry. ]
no subject
She makes herself neither difficult nor easy to find, hovering at the poolside bar for one final drink. Better to not be sedated tomorrow, and imbibing too much will make her too sleepy, but one is fine.
When Medea does catch her quarry, Waltaquin watches the way she carries herself in the dim night light. Even without her head being filled with the resonance of vengeful screaming, she wouldn't be able to tell at first. So she watches, pondering her gait and her expression and her hands.]
Hahahahaha, is this sentimentality I spy from you, or just a signal?
no subject
[ Of all of the things for Waltaquin to have seen... Medea takes a seat, folding her hands on the bar as she looks over at Waltaquin thoughtfully. How does she read the expression of a woman she's only met twice, once at a time when she now knows she may have no longer been truly herself?
Well. She's never balked at a challenge. ]
You have strange taste, to request an executioner who mocks her victim in their last moments. Is this remorse, or do monsters find company in their kin, do you think?
no subject
It isn't remorse. [That much she says quickly, with complete certainty.] I make no apologies for anything I have done.
[There is humiliation there, for playing into the trap laid by their captors and for initiating a plan that gained nothing for herself. Ah, but that isn't entirely true. She did gain something, knowledge she intimately needed but had not sought, now boiling in her like the ocean beyond the islands.
But all of her actions come without regret.]
Perhaps I knew you'd not resist the hunt.
no subject
Good. I might think it an insult to the sacrifice you offered up if you felt otherwise.
[ She circles her fingertip along the rim of the cup before pushing it back towards Waltaquin. There's a strangely companionable feeling to this, as if they have known each other longer. Psyche certainly made an attempt, this time. ]
Would you be surprised to hear I seldom hunt for sport? But I do believe in honoring my promises. [ Absentmindedly, she taps her fingers on the surface of the bar again. ] Necromancy, is it? Most people can only hope to have the death they inflict truly serve their purposes as they intend.
no subject
If Medea doesn't often hunt for sport, Waltaquin thinks that must at least partially be because she has little time for hobbies. At the very least, this last meeting between them can be fun.]
A little, albeit not as surprised to hear you calling it a promise now, heheh. [Waltaquin's few promises are made in darkness at the edge of the abyss. Medea has no need of them.
But here they both are.]
I don't just raise my dead, you know - though it is most efficient when accumulating souls.
no subject
A tiny smile tugs at a corner of her mouth as she accepts the glass in return. ]
It's true that it isn't like me to let someone else make moves on my behalf. But I suppose we can consider the circumstances exceptional.
[ She has no interest in unraveling her own motives, for either herself or Waltaquin. Idly, she takes another sip. ]
And how does that work? Will you indulge my curiosity, while we have a little time? It's something I've wondered before. But Psyche's powers don't extend to those already gone.
no subject
It's exciting, isn't it? Hahaha, I loathe the position I've been put in, and yet I can't say it hasn't been without its thrills.
[Kept in a cage, she cannot thrive... especially now that her mind contains even more things that weren't meant to be barred within such a container. Waltaquin leans, chin in hand, and chafes her gloved fingers against her cheek.]
She told you her memory, so she might have recounted mine? Then again, she might have tried to keep some privacy between us. If not, I'll tell you some other time. [That there is likely not to be, they both should know.] The dead often linger in the energy left behind...resentment at their slaughter, anger at all they did not accomplish, betrayal of the world. Necromancy is to pull this thread and bend them to serve.
no subject
A shrewd guess. She said she preferred to keep your confidences. Is she simple for you to understand?
[ Not a question she's in any urgency to have answered. For a rarity, they have time. And in a sense the subject is mere personal curiosity now. She takes her sip and offers the glass back to Waltaquin, trade for trade. ]
So you make a puppet of them? Is there consciousness, or merely the husk of a body? In either case the utility is clear enough. You would be the envy of more than one king, I think.
no subject
[For all that they're the words of a detached a cruel person, a child who breaks toys and throws them away for being broken, it's said with a tone of fond attachment. Perhaps at the start, she'd thought Psyche less than she really was. It had changed quickly enough. Psyche does have her way.]
The soul must still linger so they can be called... But I don't really think of it that way. They are under my command. Just bones and tissue sucked dry of ought else. [Just meat. Her mind quivers a little but stays standing.] Even kings fear this kind of sorcery.
What about you? [She holds the glass out to be taken rather than sliding it along this time.] To your envy?
no subject
[ An almost comical assessment, but not without basis. The corner of her mouth lifts in wry acknowledgment of the contrast, and of Waltaquin's tone. She reaches for the glass again, allowing her fingers to barely brush Waltaquin's in curiosity. ]
Are you asking my personal opinion? Or what it would be, as empress? Because I would find my reign rather shameful if it continued to produce such a volume of corpses for one such as you to make use of.
no subject
I wonder just how much one is forced to adhere to the other. [Surely more than once Medea has sacrificed her own beliefs for the sake of what she wants. As far as Waltaquin is concerned, that simply won't do. She wants to hear the other side of it, too, what that predator would say out of instinct. Her fingers twitch at the hand-off. For a moment, it seems as if she might brush the backs of her knuckles further down Medea's hand and forearm, but she doesn't.]
A firm hand releases few strays. [There are plenty of corpses still ahead on Medea's road, she thinks, even if not at the end of it.] So you think you'd be bored of me after you had what you wanted? That is, assuming you had need for my talents in the first place.
no subject
[ And further curious if it would differ from her own answer, which would have been excruciatingly clear to her once. No matter. She has no intention of becoming the sort of person who doesn't understand herself. She gives a thoughtful little hum as she takes a sip, carefully moderate. It would be embarrassing to misjudge Psyche's smaller stature. ]
Oh, I suspect you would find your own ways of holding my interest. False modesty doesn't suit you. [ A need, hm... just for that, Medea takes a second sip before setting the glass down, not yet releasing it. ] I should ask the same in turn. You don't think my interests would conflict with your pursuit of your research?
no subject
It's my impression that both are true to yourself in some capacity. One would die without the other. [That doesn't mean she has to be happy about it - about the Medea who would put fetters on herself to obtain what she wished. And yet Medea is now holding her glass hostage. She must be pressing on something. Waltaquin lowers her hand, a small pout replacing her mirth. That's hers to see returned, now.]
Well, any research is improved with the support of a wealthy patron. I imagine a conqueror is glad for the support of an ally they do not publicly name, and a tyrant is glad for a specter they can accuse. And your shame would presuppose that all nations are not already built on a veritable foundation of bones. [Meat and blood and screams and corpses as the soil and the stone...]
no subject
[ Therefore, the constraints of being empress are ones she inherently accepts. The choices she makes in that capacity are to support her own vision of it.
She arches an eyebrow slightly as she contemplates Waltaquin's pout and their progress through the contents of the glass. She has no intention of becoming fussy now, nor of questioning the effects on the sedatives she's aware Waltaquin must still be taking. It's simply one more piece of information she's gathering. ]
I cherish no illusions about the nature of a nation, let alone an empire. There will be more deaths before I'm finished. And after, certainly. But it would be inconvenient for me if they were carelessly chosen. [ "Careless" is not how she would describe Waltaquin. Neither is "easy to control," however. Which should be stifling her smile, but... ] You would make it more difficult to play another card I've gone through some pains to obtain. How much of an asset do you believe yourself to be, Waltaquin Redditch?
no subject
If you have to ask when you might easily ascertain elsewhere, how do you think that bodes? I can't believe you'd expect me to sell myself to you. [Least of all because Medea wouldn't buy what she made so easy. Though even in her response, it should be easy to get a sense of her own opinion of herself. Waltaquin would much rather be given approval than cajole it. In testament to this, she doesn't reach for the glass right away even though Medea's relinquished her hold on it.]
We'll have to see. What's this other card of yours? Regardless of the value of the move, shouldn't you chase any opportunity to have fun playing it? [Part of this game, too, is the shared knowledge that they really might never meet again. Each time could be the last. It really doesn't matter if they desire differently. Isn't that absurdly frustrating?]