( no, of course he doesn't believe that, and the hostility in his face remains. but it all falls apart when she starts to reminisce. if anything, his feathers only ruffle more as the memory pierces the hazy veil of his mind where the life he lived before used to be. the more immediate times, the ones before, and even earlier... it doesn't matter how long ago they were. he's forgotten most of them in equal measures. and then sometimes they'll come flooding randomly back, like the places in his mind where those thoughts belong haven't been emptied out, but have simply had a blanket thrown over them to stifle the light they used to shine. this—is like having that cover whipped off. his eyes squint, brows drawing together, like that figurative light isn't quite so figurative and hurts to look at.
yes... weeks before that fateful night. before he was sick and locked in his office. before he'd become so desperate and delirious that he'd be making the lesser of the deals he'd wind up making in his life. the library, where he constantly was, books spread over a table. papers everywhere. the parchment in front of him so full of notes that he'd taken to scribbling in the margins. an enormous tome propped up for him to pore through. candles burned down to stubs, almost too dim to read by anymore. his eyes had long since glazed over, and he hadn't turned the pages in a long time. asra gave up hours ago, said he was going to sleep. he hadn't replied. he'd just sat there staring miserably down at the book. clutching his hair. wanting to rip it out in clumps, to scream and throw things. so frustrated. so tired. hadn't slept in days. people still dying by the hundreds, the ashes from the lazaret so thick in the wind that everyone kept their windows closed even on summer nights. asra must've told nadia the state he was in. countess, i can't possibly stop now. i'm on the verge of a breakthrough. but he always said that. every time. little did he know he was nowhere close. )
I—
( his eyes close with consternation, struggling with the memory. it's only bits and pieces now. her hand on his, taking it away from his hair. stiff and sore as he stood up. being urged, practically pulled, out of the library. he utters the words as they come back to him in his mind's eye: )
I suppose I could use a little fresh air.
( his head snaps up in one sharp movement, eyes opening again. look at me. he's looking, alright. there's no way the devil would know. not unless—the way julian stares at nadia is like the moment she walked in all over again, only more horror-stricken, more agonized, because now the realization is setting in. the understanding of what he's seeing, even though he can't truly comprehend how or why he's seeing it, what's actually happened to her. she says "my realm" like she is the devil, but... oh, god. )
no subject
yes... weeks before that fateful night. before he was sick and locked in his office. before he'd become so desperate and delirious that he'd be making the lesser of the deals he'd wind up making in his life. the library, where he constantly was, books spread over a table. papers everywhere. the parchment in front of him so full of notes that he'd taken to scribbling in the margins. an enormous tome propped up for him to pore through. candles burned down to stubs, almost too dim to read by anymore. his eyes had long since glazed over, and he hadn't turned the pages in a long time. asra gave up hours ago, said he was going to sleep. he hadn't replied. he'd just sat there staring miserably down at the book. clutching his hair. wanting to rip it out in clumps, to scream and throw things. so frustrated. so tired. hadn't slept in days. people still dying by the hundreds, the ashes from the lazaret so thick in the wind that everyone kept their windows closed even on summer nights. asra must've told nadia the state he was in. countess, i can't possibly stop now. i'm on the verge of a breakthrough. but he always said that. every time. little did he know he was nowhere close. )
I—
( his eyes close with consternation, struggling with the memory. it's only bits and pieces now. her hand on his, taking it away from his hair. stiff and sore as he stood up. being urged, practically pulled, out of the library. he utters the words as they come back to him in his mind's eye: )
I suppose I could use a little fresh air.
( his head snaps up in one sharp movement, eyes opening again. look at me. he's looking, alright. there's no way the devil would know. not unless—the way julian stares at nadia is like the moment she walked in all over again, only more horror-stricken, more agonized, because now the realization is setting in. the understanding of what he's seeing, even though he can't truly comprehend how or why he's seeing it, what's actually happened to her. she says "my realm" like she is the devil, but... oh, god. )
No. Oh no, no, no. What did he do to you?!