You have spent the last few days on Thesa Station, taking in the knowledge that your world is no more. Perhaps you've made some friends (or maybe an enemy or two). Either way, you aren't expected to spend all of your time on the Station. El Nysa needs you, after all, and you promised you'd help the planet thrive. Are you ready?
Submit an AC-eligible thread with a new character as a participant for 2 OLYMPIA REP POINTS OR 2 WYVER REP POINTS, respectively, HERE or HERE. THESA STATION
All refugees on the station are called to the hangar where a large-scale teleporter has been set up; everyone will be sent to the planet together. Simply step onto the space between the arrays and wait. Before they depart, all new refugees will be given a starter kit!
 You may have heard about earlier technical difficulties, but don't worry. I promise everything is in perfect working order this time. I'd say I tested it myself, but since that's not exactly possible, you'll just have to trust me! (Please.)
The older refugees will also be there to guide you to ensure no one is left confused... or behind. Make sure you wait for them — I've been detecting something odd so I'll be having them meet you at the landing site. Good luck, refugees! Not that you'll be needing it or anything...
The arrays begin to hum and glow, quickly building into a brilliant wash of light. It creates a column that travels all the way from Thesa Station to the surface of El Nysa. With the night sky as a canvas, the beam can be seen all the way from Olympia and Wyver — a view that has the natives whispering of blessings.
As a sudden but beautiful aurora splays across the sky, the refugees down on the planet receive a message asking them to travel to the landing site — and warning them to prepare for what may come of the strange readings Zasere's gotten from the teleport itself.
Traveling through the light leaves the impression of blinding starlight, a strange sense of weightlessness, and a disorienting moment of total sensory deprivation. The radiance of your teleport hangs bright in the sky above you, a shimmering aurora that reflects off the calm waters below, visible for miles all around.
You've landed on a peninsula to the east of the South Outpost. There's little here — scattered trees on spring-barren plains, with a few overgrown, dilapidated structures poking out of the brush. All is quiet save for the keening of animals and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. This lonely desolation is hardly the bustling cities and vibrant cultures you were promised back on the station...
BY CAMPFIRE'S GLOW. But waiting for you is a group of your predecessors, and with them, a veritable tent city, with portable stoves, coolers of food and drink, comfortable bedrolls, and cheerful rings of bonfires — all that you need to make merry of the night, courtesy of Overseer Voss, who has, thanks to his interest in blessed meteorological phenomena and refugees, decided to make a holy expedition of the affair.
Settle in, meet new comrades, and enjoy yourself, for you've safely completed your journey. But don't wander too far from the fires — the dark is closing in, and there's a strange, electric feeling in the air, the scent of ozone drifting on the breeze. And what were those odd readings Zasere mentioned?
A SHEPHERD OVER THE FLOCK. The spring sun dawns on a grey morning, already burning away the fog rolling in off the sea. It quickly becomes apparent that Voss and his entourage of acolytes have been up for hours, hard at work. They've set up a brightly-draped stage and a travel pulpit, magically enchanted to amplify his voice, and as the sun breaks over the horizon, Voss is all set to do what he does best: proselytize.
 As our Goddess has sent Her blessing once before to herald the coming of those touched by Her light, so She has done once again! Here you see them, those surrounded by the light of our Goddess, each of them bearing the mark upon their skin of Her holiest of hands! Do you not see? Do none among you bear witness to the righteousness of Her message? Perhaps this is why our people have shamed themselves in front of our Goddess—
[ He continues for another 15 minutes... ]
Nevertheless. See you them before us now! See them as they are, coming to our gates with Her reminder, that these people must be treated with the utmost respect and care. Thesa's divinity is not to be treated with such flagrant disregard! Those who She chooses are not ours to use as mindless fodder, to hurt, to torture — shame upon those who allowed such deeds to shame us under Her watchful gaze!
To those of you who have just arrived here on our doorstep, be not afraid! The Temples of Thesa welcome you to our home with hearts and minds open! Should you ever find yourself in need of solace, seek out the Temples, as there are no greater allies to you than those of us within the Temple walls. You are welcome all to Olympia!
As he steps away from the enchanted podium, he can be heard saying aside to an acolyte, "How was that? Heavy on the shame, but I think it went well!" While he will not leave the area immediately, his acolytes will politely turn away attempts to speak with him and remind anyone interested that they can leave a message at the Temples.
Despite going off without hitch, the new refugees' arrival isn't entirely without incident. It seems that the "blessed" beam of light that brought the refugees down to El Nysa brought something else along with it — a sliver of the Storm. At least the beam was short enough that only a small fraction managed to squeeze through.
But it's enough to wreak a little havoc around the landing site and along the road back toward Olympia and Wyver — and even, for a few days, in the cities themselves.
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE. The Storm is an undeniably destructive force, and that's proven with this small sliver's effect as it ripples across the continent. While there's no visible sign of its presence, strange phenomena soon begin to appear, corresponding with Zasere's odd readings.
They're innocuous little things at first. A sudden silence, animals going quiet, insects stilling. All technology, no matter how advanced, ceases working. You discover when you check with a friend, the clock on your phone is twelve minutes slow even though you'd swear only a minute had passed — time missing. Walking through the woods takes longer than it should when brushing past one bush leads to brushing past that same bush again — and again, and again, the area looping on itself. It keeps you trapped, going in circles for minutes, even hours, before finally releasing you in a random direction.
Or perhaps you'll feel a sense of deja vu, like you've walked down this road, taken this turn, seen that bird fly from this branch before. This is the second time that cat has crossed your path. The person you're meeting, you already know their name; you're certain you've already met.
WE GOT COWS. The Storm sliver also ushers in sudden, localized weather anomalies — heavy storms, blizzards, strong winds, and more. Affected areas range from just a few feet wide to nearly half a mile. One minute, the sky may be sunny and clear, but the next dark storm clouds roll in, unleashing torrential rain. Small tornadoes surge along the road, kicking up winds strong enough to knock people over and carry objects away. Hail hurtles down from the sky, but only in a ten foot radius. Temperatures fluctuate wildly between one extreme and the next, from heat waves to cold snaps. Soupy fog blankets the area, thick enough that you can barely see your hand in front of your face. Good luck finding your way!
FORGETTING IS SO LONG. The visions come on suddenly and with very little warning. One second, you're carrying on as normal — but the next, you blink and find yourself (and anyone near you) somewhere else completely. You may recognize this place as a moment from the past, one that you lived through. It's a memory, your memory, and it now replays around you in exceptional detail, unnervingly lifelike. Or you may not recognize it at all. It might belong to the person next to you, or to someone else entirely — a memory that the Storm has swallowed up.
Either way, the scene plays out just as it once did, and there's nothing you can do to stop it — or escape it. The memory surrounds you to no end: every door you open leads nowhere, every hallway you turn down continues on forever, every horizon you flee toward hangs just out of reach. And linger too long or turn the wrong corner, and you may find yourself abruptly stuck in a completely different memory. It's almost tempting, then, to give up, to let the past sweep you away...
But this isn't the full might of the Storm. Look closely, and you can see that in the walls of this trap, there are minute, hairline cracks, a facade of fractured glass. Imperfections in the memory where the real world is breaking through. It seems the only way to escape these memories is to find those cracks and break through them — by force, by will, or by some other method entirely.
The time is coming to make a choice — perhaps not a permanent choice, but unless you want to spend the rest of your nights out under the stars, you'll need to pick which city you will initially spend your time in. On the horizon, you will see that people have arrived to help you make that decision...
A FORK IN THE ROAD. Refugees and the hyper-religious wishing to hear Voss speak are not the only ones out and about under the light of the aurora. Citizens of both Olympia and Wyver have flocked to a point on the road midway between the cities and where the refugees have appeared, and they all have the same goal in mind: convincing the newcomers who have just descended in the blessed light of Thesa to come to their city and not the other.
They've come with bribes — that is, examples of what their cities have to offer. If you spent much time at the exhibition up on Thesa Station, you might recognize some of what's being shown off, though the offerings here are markedly more tangible, and shown off by hawkers wearing substantially fewer clothes.
A herd of pegasi accompanies the Olympians, while a line of flying serpents is stabled at a tent bearing Wyver colors. Refugees are given the chance to experience solo flights and are told that if they prove their loyalty, they may have the privilege of owning such fine beasts one day themselves. The Olympians have also brought couture clothing, jewelry, and makeup to offer a taste of Olympian splendor, while the Wyver delegation has brought along fine weapons, sense-enhancing jungle plants, and small vials of diluted dragon’s blood (drinking confers a temporary boost in strength) to demonstrate their might. The Olympians speak proudly of the glory of the Temples of Thesa; the Wyverns speak of the Volkkran Pact and inform newcomers that they can make a pilgrimage to the summit of Namarak Mountain at the next full moon.
This is as good a time as any to compare your plans with others around you and exchange contact information before going your separate ways with people who are going to the city you are not. When you’re ready to go, don’t worry about safe passage — the natives of each city will gladly escort you there in luxury.
OF WHITE AND GOLD. The people of Olympia are ecstatic that you’ve come to join them... So much so that they’ve prepared a grand tour of the city for the new arrivals. You will be introduced to the major businesses in the city, including businesses that they are proud to point out were founded by refugees.
Refugees who have been here for some time already are encouraged to pair up with newcomers to introduce them to the parts of the city they like best. To facilitate this, they’ve made arrangements with many of the business owners: new refugees who visit their shops (and older refugees who escort them) are given discounts!
Just a few examples of many: the Wyvernest offers free desserts to first time visitors with the purchase of a drink, refugees who visit the Silk Wyrms can have one custom (though not exceedingly expensive) outfit made for them for free, and visitors to Shades Darker are offered a half-hour session with one of the prostitutes at half price… or access to a private room, if they seem to have taken a shine to one of their companions on the tour.
Lastly, tour guides will point out that over the course of the next week, the train to Flona Cove will allow new refugees to board for free so that they can experience the seaside for themselves. With the weather finally starting to warm, this is as good a time as any for a visit to the beach, isn’t it?
OF RED AND BLACK. Life in Wyver is typically a sink-or-swim sort of experience — but in light of the valor recently displayed by their predecessors, the natives are now more willing to assist in getting newcomers settled. The entire journey here they have been talking up the virtues of their city… and now is the time to show everything that's on offer.
The well-known businesses in the city are prepared for the influx of newcomers. Some are giving out discounted samples of their products while others are offering a more hands-on experience: in exchange for working a few hours, they will give training in whatever task is being performed.
At the Forged, newcomers can learn the basics of crafting simple weapons (and take one of their successes home), while visitors to spas near the lagoons are trained in the art of massage. Those who wander to Falmi’s Ring can learn the art of pugilism or how to keep (and fix) books if they're more inclined to the gambling that goes on. Newcomers interested in Wyver's dragons can get hands-on experience at the Fields of the Exalted's nursery. While they walk from place to place, a guide may point out a job posting from Highwind Hires, noting that refugees can make a name for themselves outside official channels.
The last stop on the tour is the Undergrowth. The guides speak of the jungle in reverent tones and caution new refugees not to wander too far in. They warn never to explore alone, but also urge refugees to take time to familiarize themselves with it; after all, the jungle is an important part of life in Wyver, and those who are going to be living here should understand it as well as they do.
You've chosen your path, refugee, but that doesn't necessarily make it a permanent one. Watch out for the strange effects of the Storm, which linger still in the two cities and everywhere in between for the next few days before dissipating just as mysteriously as they came, but otherwise enjoy the welcome and make yourself at home — after all, this is home now.
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He sounds crazy, here, like he's going crazy already. No guards up, nothing to deflect this with or use to protect himself. He's wearing his nervous system on the outside, raw and twitching. The attempts to attack - We have reached a verdict, Your Honor, this man's heart is deficient. He loves, but his love is worth nothing - sound more like pleas, and as soon as Louis turns his back on the argument Prior pitches over, holding himself because no one else will.
Like an echo, the Prior in the corner tips his head into his hands.]
He never had the framework for it. People don't, but other people stay. Other people have people who stay and build something, not destroy it.
[Destroy them. Because Prior's shattering now, visibly. I'm dying screamed across the room in a last desperate attempt to reach some human emotion in Louis, to try to make him understand the terror of dealing with that alone, the terror of being alone at all, now. Do you know what that is? Love? Do you know what love is? We lived together four and a half years.
And Louis, ever a gifted man at finding the worst possible thing to say at the worst possible time pulls off a prime achievement.
I have to find some way to save myself.
It hangs in the air like the afterecho of a slap.]
no subject
Galactics took it as a form of barbarism. But what barbarity is it compared to this? To justifying, excusing this cowardice? To having the right to be a coward without the censure of society coming and destroying you? If this man were a Barrayaran, he would be outcast and ostracized for this despicable act. Loving another man is forbidden, yes, but it is nothing compared to how utterly impermissible this dishonor is. He would be, and should be, an utter non-person for this. ]
Absurd.
[ That comes out as a low growl. ]
This fucking worm.
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[In the bed, Prior's taken to pleading with Louis to leave, now. It hurts too much, being alone was better before he knew for certain how alone he was. He's making a child's threat, go away or I'll scream but there are no other weapons available to use. No strength, no power, barely even the will left.
Curling in on himself, Prior covers his ears until his own screaming ends.]
It doesn't matter.
[And when I close my eyes you'll be gone.]
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[ There's no comforting the Prior-of-then. But now, for the Prior-of-now, By turns and walks to him. Grabs him by the shoulders and embraces him tightly, almost painfully tight, pressing his eyes shut, gritting his jaw. ]
It matters.
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[Prior keeps his own eyes open, the way he didn't, then. And maybe he's not watching what really happened anymore, maybe this is just part of the odd human capacity to fill in gaps, the way the eye compensates for its own blind spots, but he watches Louis' face in that flickering moment where there's still a choice. He could go to Prior, or he could leave.
Byerly will feel the flinch as the door closes.]
That was the last time I saw him. Four and a half years, and he walked out while I was unconscious and only came back for this. This is all four years made him responsible for, not vanishing utterly without goodbye. Sometimes when I sleep alone I still wake up imagining he's there.
[Behind them, Prior's discovered the choice made, and now he's finally letting himself cry.]
But I'm finding myself relieved, now, when he's not.
[It's taken a long time. And Prior still turns his head away from his own words, in this moment painfully true but worse to hear played back now. I hurt all over. I wish I was dead.
It's an odd, shameful thing, and Prior rarely allows himself shame. This is what he was laid low by, not the disease, not even the end of the world but by one very ordinary person leaving him abandoned to both. It's this moment that made it seem pointless to suffer on.
Very, very slowly, he unwraps his arms from their protective curl around his own body and lets himself hold Byerly instead. It's a small, simple transfer of trust, harder to make than he ever lets show.]
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Except Louis, of course. He wishes he could go up and disconnect his cryo-chamber. Let him thaw, let him curdle. That son of a bitch - ]
I'm relieved he's not there, too. If he were anywhere in my proximity, I'd be obligated to challenge him to a duel.
[ He doesn't let go of Prior - leans into him, to try to see if the bit of levity lets him relax a bit. ]
And it would be the worst duel of my life. Me chasing him about waving my sword, him yelping and trying to scramble away...
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[It's hard to relax, frankly, when there's another you crying across the room. It won't last long at least, all this will finally have exhausted Prior into a wretched, fitful sleep, and leave him wondering for days afterwards if perhaps it had been a bitter dream. Until he gets home to find empty spaces all over his apartment. The bookshelves most of all.]
Louis only ever duels with books. Still badly for the most part.
[Finally willing himself to stop crying seems to have paid off. The broken sounds have drifted into broken sleep instead. Prior exhales a shaky breath against Byerly's shoulder, hiding his face and his relief.
He doesn't hate Louis. It would be easier if he could. He can at least see more clearly the weakness that lead to this, but can't hate him for that.]
And the sword would be overkill. That's not how you'd win, you know.
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[ His hand drifts downward to stroke at Prior's neck, like soothing a cat. ]
Fairly certain that's the motto of the Barrayaran military, actually. - So how would I win?
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[There, levity. A common reach during times of strife and struggle. Even if it doesn't quite reach its mark, it's something. And these gentle touches, they're something too - a type of affection Prior's never been able to help responding to. Human contact.
How would he win?]
But you'd win with no blood drawn.
[It's not the most romantic location, they've yet to manage one of those, but there's nothing inappropriate about a kiss by a sickbed. It might be the most proper place in the world. And so Prior's hand slips to the back of Byerly's neck, enough to bring that lean in closer, and lifts his own head to meet him there.
Leaving Prior, and losing him: to Louis, they'd be very different things.]
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After a moment, though, he breaks it off, muttering - ]
But I want to draw blood.
[ Then he returns to the kiss. ]
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Being in love again, for all that it's a foolhardy, stupid-fucking-thing to do, it helps, too. Louis closed the door and for the first time replaying this memory, Prior doesn't want him to open it again.]
Oh, he bleeds over everything, he'd barely notice. [Pressing his forehead briefly to Byerly's, Prior takes a moment to find some fortitude before looking across at himself again. Empathy now, not horror or shame. He's got enough to live through, without that.] I think I'm done here now. They make coffee at the nurses station more bitter than a jilted lover. Want to stop for a cup?
no subject
[ His hand slips down, taking Prior's. A gesture of rare sweetness. He tugs Prior forward, out of the room, leaving that weeping exhausted echo behind.
They do not, of course, come to the nurse's station. Once through the door, they're back in that rotting manor. It's worse, now, than it was in the previous memory - more cluttered, more degraded, the sickly smell in the air stronger. Something's died, it seems. But the three sitting around the table hardly even seem to notice.
Nadine looks all right. She looks a bit better, honestly, than in the prior memory - in the years between that one and this, she's clearly picked up an ability with a needle, and so her clothes have gone from being worn and ill-fitting to just being a bit plain. Byerly is clothed the same, his suit homemade but decent, but he does not look particularly well; he has the red eyes and squint of a man suffering from a hangover combined with the hyperexaggerated movements of a man well into curing it though several hairs of several dogs.
Sober, shabby, and rather beautiful in the way that all the Vorrutyers inevitably are is their father. He has those dark long-lashed eyes that all their clan share, the high cheekbones and arched lips, a full head of dark hair threaded with gray. If he were shaved, and if he were wearing half-decent clothes, he'd look the part of a respectable gentleman indeed. And if his children weren't with him, too - it's clear how much they both loathe him, though in different ways. Nadine does not so much as glance at him, turning her eyes anywhere but towards her father; Byerly, in contrast, keeps looking over, his mouth set in a furious line.
They eat in utter silence.
By - the By of right now - he looks between them, then over at Prior. He doesn't know exactly what scene this is, from when, but he has his suspicions. And he's worried. ]
Ah. Here's that tour after all, it seems.
no subject
How fortitious.
[Making a quick assessment of the room, it's easy to settle on the one pertinent fact: it's not a good place to be. Whatever's preceded this is still seething near the surface of this cold, quiet water. The younger Byerly's barely concealed agitation's clearly building to explode, whether he makes it to being excused from the table or not.
What's the saying about unhappy families? Prior's seen his share of familiar failings and yet there's something about the misery here that feels ingrained, dirt pressed too deep under the nail bed to ever scrub out. And it's Byerly's father Prior can't quite look away from. How he can preside over this without flinching is inconceivable to anyone with an idea of what a father should be - and Prior's own example's a poor enough study.
His hand in Byerly's curls tighter, and the step he takes forward's partly out of desire not to be here for this, partly putting himself, shoulder and side, between Byerly and that deathly tableaux. Between Byerly and that man.]
So that's the dining room. I like what you've done with the - [A beat.] walls. Very Gormenghast. Your room next?
no subject
[ But he falls silent when Nadine breaks the silence. Her voice is high, girlish, but there's steel in it. Somehow, against all odds, in spite of a catatonic mother and a cruelly indifferent father, she practically radiates confidence. Byerly had half-forgotten that - how utterly sure of herself she was - and there isn't much he gives himself credit for, but he gives himself credit for that. He was always there - taking the blows, deflecting the attention, making her lunches, scheming and dealing to get her clothes so she didn't show up to school raggedy...By might be a mess, he might be a disaster of a man, he might be confused and cowardly and uncertain of his path in life, he might be stripped of honor, but he made Nadine stronger. If he did nothing else in life, he did that.
"I am staying at school." She's speaking in English. With Byerly, in the present memory, it was French.
There's no sign of surprise from his father. There's no sign of anger. There's no sign of anything. In a flat voice, in French, he says, "You'll not be staying where he can touch you."
Byerly, in the present day, presses his eyes shut in misery and shame. Byerly of the past clenches his fist around his fork so hard that it's almost astonishing that blood doesn't drip from his hand. Strangled, spitting, snarling in French, with a hot rage that bears no resemblance to his usual cold anger, he says, "I've never done anything to her, you fucking fool, you fucking - "
"He has never," Nadine joins in, the steel of her voice wavering as a hotter emotion of her own creeps into it.
Their father reaches for a piece of bread. "I'm willing to pay for the post so you can notify your friends," he says. There's a tilt to his head that suggests that he expects some sort of thanks for his magnaminity.
"Is it the money?" By asks, visibly trying to calm himself down. Visibly failing. "If it's about money, just take it out of my inheritance. Take it out of - Take me out of school." Then, with a slam of his fist against the table, "They fucking lied to you, and you're too fucking stupid to understand it. You have a mutie's fucking brain!"
It's a provocation that his sister reacts to visibly, stiffening, but his father hardly even seems to register it. He just keeps chewing the stale bread. ]
Ah.
no subject
As usual, this city and it's happenstances seem remarkably lacking in coincidence. Though the point of this is hard to grasp, playing after-school specials of lives they've lived before.
Byerly's an underdeveloped version of himself here, and it's strange seeing him making such a hapless case. No guile, no confident trickery to get around this impenetrable block of a man, just anger and honest attempts at bargaining against unfair treatment, which roll back off their father like oil beading on water.
Prior feels, perhaps, something like Byerly did, watching Louis bypass the correct human response. No one would think these children were liars. Prior twists Byerly's hand closer in his grip, turning his head away from the table to look back at him.]
How soon is this, before you left? [Because it must be this, surely, that's the finger on the trigger.]
no subject
About...a month.
[ And how absurd that is. A month. Looking at himself now, he looks close to madness, close to falling apart completely. How had he lasted another month? He wants to grab at his younger self, to take him by the shoulders and shout at him - go now, gather up enough money that you can fucking afford a bed and get out of here now, things are only going to get worse. But that's not how it'll go, is it? In a month, there'll be that night when By is drunk and goes to confront his father, and his father doesn't budge, and By grabs the knife and threatens to cut his throat then and there, and then he'll storm out with nothing in his pockets at all and a head full of shame and dishonor. If he'd gone now, while he looked on the brink of madness instead of fully immersed in it - Would he have spent his life so badly? Would he have spent a full decade trying to kill himself with drink? Or would he have gone to the capital and become something decent, someone happy...?
Get out, the both of you. Run, while you have a chance. Or is that a Louis-like cowardice speaking? He wonders for just a single, fleeting moment. As young-Byerly takes his plate and hurls it on the floor, as Nadine flinches, as By storms from the room - Byerly watches his father's face. There was sickness there. No question of it. Was fleeing - Was he just trying to save himself?
By rubs wearily at an eye. He tries something rather like a joke. ]
Not my wittiest retort. Smashing dishware.
no subject
Well, you were already right. Hard to quip when you're talking to a brick wall.
[He turns heel in toward Byerly, back to his cold, impassive father.] You were right, you did know that? He doesn't understand - anything. Look at this place, you couldn't expect reason from someone who lets you live like this. That is not...
[His jaw works a moment, teeth worrying at his lip, keeping back worse words.]
You should have had better than that.
no subject
[ He says that like it has some explanatory power. Like, well, yes, of course we all have dark hair, he had dark hair too. He despises his father for it, no doubt of that; he hates the fact that he and his sister wore rags and were sick, often as not, off the slop they were fed. He hates the fact that he had to beg and wheedle the proper books for Nadine. That he turned into a thief, filching and pawning family heirlooms, so she could keep up with the other students. That his father threw that in his face, later - that he was a sneak and a criminal as well as a pervert, when By was just doing what any good parent would.
So he hates his father for it. But should have had is a foreign concept for him. Should he? This is just his legacy. His and Nadine's. Born into a family that long ago traded compassion for power, and who were paying for it.
Really, though, how strange. In the midst of this outrage, this offense against his honor - How strange it is that Prior comments on the offense against something as commonplace as his physical well-being. It seems so minor in comparison. ]
Asking him to clothe his children would be like asking a hillman to count past ten with his boots still on.
no subject
[It's far fom just his physical wellbeing. It's... it's everything. Prior's grip on Byerly's hand is uncomfortably tight.]
You, not him, not this. I know what it's like, you live with something rotten long enough you start to think that's how things should smell. But this isn't miserliness and that is not a father. You can't just brush this off because he's known for it. Pol Pot was known for genocide, that doesn't mean people should have been elbowing each other amiably and gossiping about murdery old Pol at parties. Did you know. Do you?
no subject
[ His voice is light, smooth, polished. But his face is leaden in its control. His eyes fix on the ground by his feet - looking at the familiar knot in the wood, the little imperfection he'd stare at and concentrate on so hard as he tried to just hypnotize himself into not hearing any of it. Not sensing any of it. It never worked then, and it doesn't work now - everything is as sharp as it always was. ]
I was innocent of everything he accused me of. Of course I knew that. [ Usually. Sometimes he wondered - the firmness with which Father believed it, he wondered if maybe he hadn't gone mad - But Nadine always reeled him back in. ] Of course I knew he was wrong.
no subject
[Prior disrupts Byerly's eyeline as directly as he disrupts the heavy silence in the room, breaking through that fixed point of view to put himself there instead. All the control Byerly's so careful with does nothing but trap him inside with all this and Prior won't have it anymore.]
He can't understand. That's what you're right about. If he could, if he really believed it, this whole - this reaction would still be messed up. [Too calm, too cold, lock it in a box, throw away the key and pretend you can't hear it screaming. He's heard attempts at the same sentiment from Byerly, fortunately less successful in the execution. There's nothing in his father's demeanor that suggests he can be appealed to.
There's just.
There's nothing there.]
You're asking for reason for someone who - call it a hunch - checked out of that hotel long ago. I don't know what he's suffering with but there's something and he's - oh. [Flinching like someone's taken their hand to his arm and pinched hard, Prior shoots a look back at the table. He is suffering, locked away in his own little box, but these things just keep opening around Prior. For a moment there's something like pity on his face, shaken away hard as he turns back.]
Whatever he's suffering with isn't an excuse. But he's not capable of believing you. You were right. And you have nothing to be ashamed of, Byerly, especially not yourself.
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[ Which must be true. He was just a petty little monster. Right? There was nothing to the old man aside from his greed and his spite, the judgmental little barbs thrown at Byerly and at the Vorrutyers and at all the Vor from the Emperor on down. There doesn't need to be some deep well of sorrow that underlies misanthropy. Some people are just bastards. Right?
By lifts his gaze from Prior's torso - not quite meeting his eyes, yet, just focusing on his chin, but at least it's general upwards momentum. ]
And I could provoke him, sometimes. [ In his younger years, at least. Not when he was older, when Father had really settled into his icy remove, but on three satisfying occasions he'd said the right combination of things that Father had broken and slapped him. Here, this time, he should have been able to. He should have been able to get through, but instead -
By shakes his head. Just very slightly, the motion small and stiff and painful. ]
But you really think I had nothing to be ashamed of? Look. [ At Nadine, who's lost the steel she had when By was at the table. Not all of it - she's hardly falling apart - but it's clear she's fiercer when her brother is there. ] I was as much of a coward as your Louis.
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Look. He takes the offer of distraction to watch Nadine for a moment, as their father's knife scrapes across his plate, the sound high and jarring. Her head is bowed, now, and Prior's fingertips curl with the want to tip her chin back up to defiance.]
I wish you'd taken her. You're stronger, with her, maybe you'd have been happier too. But. More people might have believed the stories, then. [It's phrased as a question, the words pitched upwards at the tail, but it's not much of one. In the same way, they might have taken Byerly's flight as an admission of guilt. There really is no winning here.] It's an impossible situation, and you're practically a child. How are you supposed to do the right thing when there's no right thing to do? You tried for a month and ran out of ideas to protect her. Lou's 32, and was fucking me, until that prospect became unappealing. That's when he ran. This is so not the same. There's no fair chance for you, you don't even know what you're up against.
[Byerly's father drops his cutlery, loud enough to startle, and sits staring dully ahead. It's a small horror to see a man so hollowed out. Prior takes a breath, and the bullet between his teeth.]
Your father. He was the youngest, growing up. [It's a question, and it's not.] And he had an older brother, too.
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Four years ago, young Lydia Vordarian had been smeared by some anonymous wag who had said that she was taking pay for her time. Quietly, subtly, the work had been done to uncover the source of the gossip. Her old flame, Eugene Vorinnis. No one remembered the rumors about Lydia once the work was through, not with good Eugene's reputation scorched to high heaven. If only, though - if only there had been people like that, back then - if only someone had looked out for him...
Was it cowardice, then? Like Louis' cowardice? At the end of the day, he left her to the wolves. By the grace of her inner strength and ferocity, she fought them off - emerged alive - but he still left her to that. ]
Yes.
[ By answers rather absently, hardly even attending to the question, too lost in his reverie. ] Three older brothers. Count Oleg, Alexander, and Ges.
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And Ges.
[He nods a few times, stalling over the words a last few seconds. It is better to think of cruelty as meaningless or rooted in some distant cause? It's still cruelty, and this man is still no father to his children. He could have taken his experiences as cause to keep them safe, not retreated into this, where no one's safe, and the love that should be between them's turned as cold and rotten as the family home. He's protecting no one with this, not even himself.
But he's not here either, is he. Not in this room, not even when this was more than just memory.
Prior curls both his arms around Byerly's one, pushing up to rest his chin on his shoulder, keeping his voice soft as a whisper.]
He's seeing echoes, not you. That's why he believes it.
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