( he ought to flinch at the accusation, but he's used to the verbal abuse. or got to used to it back when there was still plenty of it to hear. the devil always did know just the right things to say to him to break his spirit, crush his confidence. make him doubt himself, fold in upon himself like a collapsing building and drown in his own guilt. the greatest weapon against julian has always been julian, really.
besides. it's hard to flinch when he's still staring, so stunned, completely unable to grasp what he's looking at. the devil, to be sure... right? but then why this form? why her face? why her voice? why? why? what kind of trick is this? he hasn't experienced anything like it before, and that makes it so much harder for him to reconcile. if it were more of the same old sisyphean torture, pushing that boulder of burden in the shape of his long-lost friends and family now only available to him forevermore as twisted illusions and haunted nightmares, he'd be able to shrug it off. but this—
julian's mouth hangs open, his gaze only shifting to watch the tankard she pulls toward her as if on an invisible string slide across the table. without really being conscious of it, all the feathers on his body start to stand on end, ruffled and frazzled until he's puffed up to nearly double the size he was when she came in. whether that's out of fear or a reaction to some perceived threat, even he doesn't know. )
...Countess?? Nad—
( no. no. there, you see, that's it! a deal> a trap! quickly, he shuts his mouth, shakes his head. )
No. No. I'm not falling for this again, just stop. I don't know what you're playing at, but why bother? What else do you want? I said I'd stay. Don't—use her face. Leave her out of this.
( it's amusing--or would be, in any other circumstance, because her eyes go from the tankard which, to some disappointment, is nearly drained, peering down into its depths, to the movement in front of her, the wide-eyed way that julian stares at her and how his feathers go, not all at once, but in patches, ruffling and spreading and rounding him up into a large black mess. it reminds her, again, of chandra, of the way she might get irritated with some perceived inconvenience and puff herself into something more menacing as though it might help her get her way; and her lips pull before she can stop herself, something rueful and sad and wiped off her face as quickly as it appears.
leave her out of this, julian is demanding, and part of her wants to slam her hand into the table--granted, it would most likely go all the way through, now, splinter the wood into pieces, and the urge to do it is there, that simmering anger that seems to spark up from somewhere in her chest like it's worming its way through all the good fairness in her heart and turning it into something else. like an apple that's got a worm at its core, eating away slowly but steadily. she doesn't blame him for thinking it's a trap. and yet-- )
Could the Devil really replicate my beauty so easily?
( it's another amusement, though it's mostly hollow. )
You said you'd stay, I know. He told me this. And now it's my realm where you will stay, if that's your choice.
( he won't believe that either, will he? she glances back into the tankard again--it's full, somehow, despite knowing it wasn't just moments earlier. she lets it rest on the table, props her gold-tipped fingers around it, drums her claws into the edge. it makes a rhythmic, rattling sound against the tin, and her lips press together against the pain that still threatens to sear through her head at trying so earnestly to remember things that are lost. )
Do you remember, before all this? Those years before he died? There was a night you were buried so heavily in your research, even Asra gave up on prying you away. You hadn't slept for at least a day, maybe more, and it was the middle of the night and you... had your hands in your hair, like you were likely to pull it out, and I didn't want you to shed all of that awful red hair all over my clean library floor.
( the memory swims, jolts--then goes stable, her red gaze focused on some knot of the wood of the table as she recounts it, or maybe it's that she can't look julian in the face as she speaks. )
And we went outside, to the garden, and the fountain, and then... You remember, don't you? How would the Devil know all this? Look at me.
( 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. )
( there's something almost fascinating about watching him piece it together, the way his feathers shift and move as though there's some method to it all, a way to force his body to find the pathways that have scabbed over, where things have been taken from him, robbed from him, and left emptiness in their wake. she has those things too, little pieces that seem to scatter in the wind of her breath when she tries to focus too hard on them--it's much easier to let it all flow, like water, and the thought reminds her of asra and all of his beautiful magic, and her heart hurts, or what's left of it does, in any case, while the rest feels heavy like stone.
he says the words and it's like they slot in where her mind glosses over; yes, he'd said it that night, yes, had relented to her mostly out of obligation, surely, but she had been pleased to take him away. even with the library being one of her own favourite places--they both needed the cool night air to finally breathe. julian had taken the whole thing to desperate lengths, with desperate measures, and that's her fault too, and that's something that she's never gotten to apologize for. probably can't ever apologize for. and that's another reason vesuvia is, truly, in better hands now, right/
because if she had just been better, had found a way to weave past all of lucio's obstacles, thrown in her path, then perhaps it all wouldn't have happened like--
julian's head jerks, rights itself like his whole neck snaps back into place again. the thought makes her want to shiver. )
It's more that you should be asking what I did to him.
( and this is probably the part where she shouldn't tell him, exactly, what happened--because there is no way that he would look at her with those soft, sad eyes and still feel anything but contempt and, especially, disgust with her, for doing it at all. her gaze goes from his face back down to the cup with her hand clamped over it, and damn it all, she decides, and brings it up to her lips.
it's--
--utterly disgusting. how does he drink this? she skids the tankard back across the table towards him with the blunt base of her palm. )
He's gone. I'm here in his place. Which begs the question, really, of where you should be, now that I'm capable of helping you.
( julian catches the tankard between both hands and pulls it toward him almost protectively. except he isn't protecting his stupid drink from her, or, really, protecting her from the stupid drink, either, he just. needs to hold onto something. because the alternative is in the way he almost reaches past it, like he means to touch her instead, only to realize he doesn't dare. not because of her. because of him. because of the black scaled birdskin and claws and feathers that are his hands now, rough and decidedly wholly unpleasant. it doesn't matter what she looks like now, or what she's become, he can't... he can't. so he holds the cup, his eyes wide and round and almost betrayed, the anguish as plain as anything. )
Wha—no! You didn't do this for me. Please tell me you didn't do this for me, that's...
( why do anything, why should she have to? and why like this? and—gone? he couldn't have broken his deal, because then wouldn't his chains have been broken, too? it's a contract, isn't it? or at least those are the lies he was told, the foolishness he believed in when he did what he did to save everybody. no, it doesn't make sense. how she can be in his place. )
You shouldn't be here. You were supposed to be safe. You were all supposed to be safe. That was the deal. I don't need help, you need to go home.
( it's one of the many options she should have considered, maybe: that he might see this as some sort of betrayal, as though she couldn't trust him to do what had to be done, or to fully give himself up to something that she thinks, perhaps, he was almost too keenly ready to give himself up to. after all, what batter way to pay for the things he thinks himself responsible for than to do something like this? to live an existence of suffering and disappointment and loneliness, and to make it seem worth it by declaring that it's been done for the sake of everyone else?
it's not that she doesn't trust him. it's not that she thinks he would try to break free of it. but it's more that she's tired of trusting the devil when he's been nothing but contrary--and well, she's solved that well enough, hasn't she? still, the anguish, the wide look of his eyes, is almost, almost too much for her to bear. or maybe it would have been, if she weren't made partly of something now that doesn't much care for anything else; it feels like stone, again, wedged in her chest. she looks at the table instead. )
Everyone is safe. You needn't worry about that.
( and the city is safe, from her inability, now--everyone is safe from that, too. )
You don't quite understand, do you?
I am home.
( she can feel it, vaguely: the pull of him, of everyone around them, the way that her hands could wrap around invisible lengths and pull at hot metal and strangle all of them under the weight of her whims. and maybe that's what he needs, then: she would reach across the table and slap him, but she doesn't want to hurt him outright, doesn't want to give in to that sort of mediocrity; she settles for her elbow on the table, her index finger twisting in the air, tightening the chains around him little by little. just a little squeeze. the kind that faust would love. ah, her heart hurts. )
Julian. I'm him, now. ( the kind of plain words she doesn't like, but they may be best suited for his drowning anguish. ) I won't be going back.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
besides. it's hard to flinch when he's still staring, so stunned, completely unable to grasp what he's looking at. the devil, to be sure... right? but then why this form? why her face? why her voice? why? why? what kind of trick is this? he hasn't experienced anything like it before, and that makes it so much harder for him to reconcile. if it were more of the same old sisyphean torture, pushing that boulder of burden in the shape of his long-lost friends and family now only available to him forevermore as twisted illusions and haunted nightmares, he'd be able to shrug it off. but this—
julian's mouth hangs open, his gaze only shifting to watch the tankard she pulls toward her as if on an invisible string slide across the table. without really being conscious of it, all the feathers on his body start to stand on end, ruffled and frazzled until he's puffed up to nearly double the size he was when she came in. whether that's out of fear or a reaction to some perceived threat, even he doesn't know. )
...Countess?? Nad—
( no. no. there, you see, that's it! a deal> a trap! quickly, he shuts his mouth, shakes his head. )
No. No. I'm not falling for this again, just stop. I don't know what you're playing at, but why bother? What else do you want? I said I'd stay. Don't—use her face. Leave her out of this.
no subject
leave her out of this, julian is demanding, and part of her wants to slam her hand into the table--granted, it would most likely go all the way through, now, splinter the wood into pieces, and the urge to do it is there, that simmering anger that seems to spark up from somewhere in her chest like it's worming its way through all the good fairness in her heart and turning it into something else. like an apple that's got a worm at its core, eating away slowly but steadily. she doesn't blame him for thinking it's a trap. and yet-- )
Could the Devil really replicate my beauty so easily?
( it's another amusement, though it's mostly hollow. )
You said you'd stay, I know. He told me this. And now it's my realm where you will stay, if that's your choice.
( he won't believe that either, will he? she glances back into the tankard again--it's full, somehow, despite knowing it wasn't just moments earlier. she lets it rest on the table, props her gold-tipped fingers around it, drums her claws into the edge. it makes a rhythmic, rattling sound against the tin, and her lips press together against the pain that still threatens to sear through her head at trying so earnestly to remember things that are lost. )
Do you remember, before all this? Those years before he died? There was a night you were buried so heavily in your research, even Asra gave up on prying you away. You hadn't slept for at least a day, maybe more, and it was the middle of the night and you... had your hands in your hair, like you were likely to pull it out, and I didn't want you to shed all of that awful red hair all over my clean library floor.
( the memory swims, jolts--then goes stable, her red gaze focused on some knot of the wood of the table as she recounts it, or maybe it's that she can't look julian in the face as she speaks. )
And we went outside, to the garden, and the fountain, and then... You remember, don't you? How would the Devil know all this? Look at me.
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?!
no subject
he says the words and it's like they slot in where her mind glosses over; yes, he'd said it that night, yes, had relented to her mostly out of obligation, surely, but she had been pleased to take him away. even with the library being one of her own favourite places--they both needed the cool night air to finally breathe. julian had taken the whole thing to desperate lengths, with desperate measures, and that's her fault too, and that's something that she's never gotten to apologize for. probably can't ever apologize for. and that's another reason vesuvia is, truly, in better hands now, right/
because if she had just been better, had found a way to weave past all of lucio's obstacles, thrown in her path, then perhaps it all wouldn't have happened like--
julian's head jerks, rights itself like his whole neck snaps back into place again. the thought makes her want to shiver. )
It's more that you should be asking what I did to him.
( and this is probably the part where she shouldn't tell him, exactly, what happened--because there is no way that he would look at her with those soft, sad eyes and still feel anything but contempt and, especially, disgust with her, for doing it at all. her gaze goes from his face back down to the cup with her hand clamped over it, and damn it all, she decides, and brings it up to her lips.
it's--
--utterly disgusting. how does he drink this? she skids the tankard back across the table towards him with the blunt base of her palm. )
He's gone. I'm here in his place. Which begs the question, really, of where you should be, now that I'm capable of helping you.
no subject
Wha—no! You didn't do this for me. Please tell me you didn't do this for me, that's...
( why do anything, why should she have to? and why like this? and—gone? he couldn't have broken his deal, because then wouldn't his chains have been broken, too? it's a contract, isn't it? or at least those are the lies he was told, the foolishness he believed in when he did what he did to save everybody. no, it doesn't make sense. how she can be in his place. )
You shouldn't be here. You were supposed to be safe. You were all supposed to be safe. That was the deal. I don't need help, you need to go home.
no subject
it's not that she doesn't trust him. it's not that she thinks he would try to break free of it. but it's more that she's tired of trusting the devil when he's been nothing but contrary--and well, she's solved that well enough, hasn't she? still, the anguish, the wide look of his eyes, is almost, almost too much for her to bear. or maybe it would have been, if she weren't made partly of something now that doesn't much care for anything else; it feels like stone, again, wedged in her chest. she looks at the table instead. )
Everyone is safe. You needn't worry about that.
( and the city is safe, from her inability, now--everyone is safe from that, too. )
You don't quite understand, do you?
I am home.
( she can feel it, vaguely: the pull of him, of everyone around them, the way that her hands could wrap around invisible lengths and pull at hot metal and strangle all of them under the weight of her whims. and maybe that's what he needs, then: she would reach across the table and slap him, but she doesn't want to hurt him outright, doesn't want to give in to that sort of mediocrity; she settles for her elbow on the table, her index finger twisting in the air, tightening the chains around him little by little. just a little squeeze. the kind that faust would love. ah, her heart hurts. )
Julian. I'm him, now. ( the kind of plain words she doesn't like, but they may be best suited for his drowning anguish. ) I won't be going back.