[ It's a quiet, snow-filled night, judging by the view out of the windows in the train. The compartment itself only holds two people-- the dark-haired young woman in glasses that Rufus will probably recognize from last week and, sitting across from her, Dorothy (tight-lipped, pointing a gun at her companion, eyes narrowed).
The gun is held by a steady hand, even as Dorothy's lips move soundlessly for a second, a clear moment of indecision flashing in her eyes.
And then the girl speaks, wistfully.
"Dorothy. You were always like the wind. So light and free."
She reaches into her coat and Dorothy warningly jerks the gun up, a pleading tone entering her voice.
"Stop it, Prefect. I don't want to shoot a friend."
The girl pauses, then smiles warmly. "Thank you." As she continues to speak, she slips a gun out of her coat. Dorothy stiffens, tense, but Prefect doesn't point the gun at her. "Because you were kind enough to call me your friend, I'll give you a Christmas present."
The gun moves up, closer to her temple. "A free pass, to get you out of shooting your friend."
"Don't do this, Prefect!"
The desperation is palpable in Dorothy's voice now as tears form in her eyes; she didn't want this. She didn't want any of this, she should have tried harder to reach out to her, she should have knocked the gun away, she should have known that things weren't fine between them, had she missed a sign, any kind of sign that Prefect had been begging for help this whole time?
Prefect smiles with equally teary eyes and presses the barrel of the gun to her head.
She pulls the trigger and then, as Dorothy fruitlessly reaches out, a shot rings out, blood spills down her face and her body topples over to the side.
And then, abruptly, the memory is gone and Dorothy sits there in stunned silence, only remembering to draw in a shaky breath after a few seconds. ]
[The guilt is palpable in the air. Memories may be fleeting, but emotions are eternal. Emotions tied to the death of a loved one before one's eyes, he knows, are especially potent.
He recalls Prefect from last week. It dawns on him now that she must've been the reason for the first lesson when he attempted to hang himself. Dorothy's panic back then suddenly makes that much more sense: she is still grieving.
The silence is drawn out by Dorothy and Rufus both as the latter processes the heavy memory. Then he straightens.]
Have you found your teammates?
[It's debatable how much time is enough to truly process something like that for the memory's owner. They don't have the luxury of anything longer than this, though. Even if she hasn't shared her Leader with anyone else, it doesn't mean she hasn't learned the Leaders of others.]
[ It's really not enough time. Prefect's death is still a very fresh memory for her, one that isn't entirely faded from Dorothy's mind, despite this place's valiant attempt to pry it from her.
But she makes a visible effort to pull herself together, suddenly pale and troubled as she is. Rufus' curtness may drive others back, but honestly, it's a blessing right now because it doesn't let her fall into the turmoil of her own thoughts.
Still, her eyes are a little dark when she looks up at him again, her voice quieter. ]
He orders a glass of water and takes a sip while she pulls herself together, filling the silence with equally quiet action. Noise would just be an unnecessary distraction. After the third sip, their eyes meet.]
[A part of him almost resents that, because it makes it sound like he has no pride. But there's no judgment in Dorothy's tone. She's merely pointing out circumstantial fact, and he lifts his left hand for another sip of water to acknowledge it in silence when a bubble drifts in from the side and pops against the glass.
(Rufus is nowhere to be seen. But feelings of confusion and foreboding seep into the scene as a deafening bang rings in the air.)
In the corner of a dilapidated shack, a frightened woman holds her child close. Scales spot the boy's face and shoulders as he lifts his head and whispers, "Mama?" Trembling, the mother gives her child one last squeeze before tucking him away to safety and dashing for the door.
(Something about all of that aches.)
Outside, a man holds an injured, kneeling man at gunpoint. The mother bursts into the scene, huffing.
"Darling! Stop it, Tristan!"
The injured man's eyes widen as he snaps his head in her direction.
"No! Don't come out! Stay there!"
"Hey," says Tristan, turning to the mother, "it's been a while. Shouldn't you be saying, 'Thank you,' instead of 'stop'? I let you guys meet again."
"No!" shouts the man. "You . . . used her to catch me."
"Good for you! So you came, knowing it was a trap?" Tristan exhales through his nose, looking entirely too inconvenienced by these turn of events. "Look, Legis. I worked hard. Do you know how much I spent to resurrect Melanie? Of course, your son is paying the debt."
Legis gives a muted gasp before his expression contorts into a glower.
"Rufus . . . You used even my son!"
Tristan chuckles.
"You don't know what your son thinks of you. Why don't we focus on this situation? Tell me where the item is. I'll tell you this right now, but don't think about killing yourself to guard your secret. I can bring you to the Tower of Memory and rifle through your head. And for making me do useless work . . . I may take my anger out on your wife and son."
"Don't touch Lass!" exclaims Melanie from where she stands.
Legis is quiet. His hand lifts away from the wound on his chest with blood staining his fingers and settles over his upright knee.
"It looks like the partner I once knew left a long time ago. Then let's die together right here!" Bellowing, Legis jumps onto his feet. A blue flame erupts from his person that burns neither his flesh nor clothes, and it rages with all the fury writ upon his face. "You will die with me, Tristan!"
The memory ends; however, the scene remains as the illusion fades. Rufus stands in a room of stone populated with scattered books. Like Legis before him, fury wells within him.
However, unlike his father, there's more. There is confusion over what he just witnessed; there is hurt at the betrayal he'd been expecting yet hadn't expected nearly enough; and, more potent than any other emotion coursing through his blood—his father's blood—there is renewed grief that rivals the love he bears for his mother as he looks to his right.
(It wasn't supposed to be this way. She wasn't meant to suffer again.)
Tears fall silently from a familiar teenager's eyes as he weeps. An elven woman speaks gently to him: "Lass, please don't cry . . . "
The true memory fades out and then in, skipping several precious seconds. Another gunshot rings out and a member of the party crumbles to his knees with a grunt. Standing a short distance away on the other side of the room, Tristan points the smoking barrel of his gun at them.]
[ She has... no idea what's happening, Rufus' confusion not influencing hers, merely mirroring it. The woman holding the little boy close is a near-identical match to the one she'd seen last week, though the hair color and the eye color are different.
The injured man-- Legis. Rufus' father, the one also mentioned, which means the woman is indeed Rufus' mother. But... resurrect? Is that why she looks vaguely different? Rather, she looks human, not bearing those pointed ears she's come to associate with Rufus.
A debt. Despite herself, she hears it in her mind, clear as day.
"Oh, did he not tell you? Surely it must be the duty of the daughter to take on her father's debt when he himself can't pay up. Don't worry, love, we'll be gentle."
But it continues. Melanie and her small son being threatened, Legis reacting with fury, and then suddenly all that is gone and there's Rufus and a group of people standing in some sort of... library?
With the wave of emotions that follows, Dorothy lets her mind work to click those pieces together with what she already knows. What she's already seen. Rufus' mother had died, presumably waiting for her husband. Rufus had made arrangements to resurrect her, but had been put into debt because of it-- which explains his single-minded desire for money. She had resurrected and... been reunited with her husband and now had another child, the boy she'd seen-- Rufus' brother? And the man who had done it had taken advantage of that-- of them, of Rufus and his unwavering love for his mother.
Then the man, Tristan, must be the source of all of that rage and fury... the one Rufus had declared he would kill with his own power.
There's an ache when she thinks of her own mother, the woman who had left and never returned. But the ache only intensifies when the scene ends but the emotions remain heavy over her, like a thick blanket. Dorothy knows what it's like to be hurt and betrayed, to be furious at the circumstances and the people who would take advantage of them, to love your parents despite everything, and the grief, the pain of knowing that despite your best efforts, things had still gone terribly wrong.
And Rufus has been carrying this with him all this time, refusing to trust anyone or make connections because of where it's led him, and she finally knows why.
It's really just a single tremor that runs through her, but when Dorothy lifts her head, it's with tears sliding down her face that she doesn't even register at the moment.
[The emotions are always fresh; their scabs, torn off by reminders of the events that preceded his arrival in the Realm. He laments what happened to his family and wants nothing more than for Tristan to pay after wrongfully collecting from them for so many years. But that's not a story for this place.
Taking a deep breath, he sets the glass down and dares a glance at Dorothy, who is . . . crying, just like Lass was. It draws a frown out of Rufus.]
[The anger in her eyes sets off a dubious spark within him when something akin to wonder clamps over the match before it can burst. But even that pales to his own anger that rages at Tristan's actions, weeks later.]
. . . Yes.
Pride or comfort means nothing to me. If it will let me reach him, I will discard both.
[For how selfish his intentions may be, his priorities in the Realm will never waver. Follow the rules, or at least break them within reasonable boundaries.]
[ So that was it. Regardless of the rule, whether he personally dislikes it or not, if accomplishing it allows him to get home... then he'd do it.
It explains how he'd forged through the trials last week without protest or much of a comment. And it tells her, simply enough, that it's pointless to worry. He'll get it done.
Almost exactly like her, she can't help but think, as she'd first murmured weeks ago. Maybe that's part of the reason. ]
I get it. [ It's said rather quietly and she shifts in her seat. ]
Then do what you have to. I'll support you where I can.
[He looks down at the glass of water, his fingers wrapping tighter around it. Look at where relying on others has gotten him. It wasn't like he had much of a choice back then, but he's had to pay the fee for this lesson far too many times for the supposed investment to be worth it anymore.]
[ But then there's yet another bubble and Dorothy sees it right as it bumps against her shoulder and there it goes.
A little girl, likely no older than nine, lifts her heavily marked arms over her head. Defensive. Her long sleeves are ripped, tears streaking down her face, her little fingers bruised, bloody and broken as new injuries accumulate with each blow that rains down upon her.
The man that towers over her is shouting near-incoherently, his words slurred, and the stench of alcohol washes over her as a metal claw that seems to have replaced his hand comes down on her. Again. Again. Again and again and again.
Snippets can be heard through the girl's faint sobs, about how "you'll leave me, just like she did" and "you're laughin' at your old man behind his back, aint'cha" and "it ain't my fault this happened to me!!"
And it continues until the girl stops protecting herself, kneels slumped on the floor with her clothes torn and her face swollen from the force of his ire, and the man lets out a loud wail and scoops her to his chest. She stares blankly over his shoulder and he cradles the back of her head, apologies falling on deaf ears.
"Daisy, my sweet Daisy, I didn't mean it, darlin', I didn't mean it--"
Everything aches. Everything hurts. But more than that, as she stares at nothing, something stirs inside of her. More than the misery, more than that thin shred of gratitude that at least he hadn't left her like her mother had... there's a tiny spark of resolve.
No one's going to stop this. He isn't going to change. If she doesn't do something, she'll die, just like this.
[Rufus is quiet in the initial moment they come back from the memory.
In the end, even parents can be difficult to trust. In fact, the fragments of trust broken by family are by far the hardest to piece back together. Daisy, who should've been cherished by her father, was instead beaten and blamed for a crime that wasn't hers, but her father's for shifting the responsibility onto her small shoulders in a show of the ultimate betrayal.
It's good that his apologies fell on deaf ears. It's better that she saved herself. Her father is a coward, but Dorothy is brave—nor does she plead self-gratifying forgiveness for all that she's done.
Rufus peers into the empty glass before shoving it forward and rising from his seat. If he has questions, he neglects to ask them.]
[ Dorothy doesn't answer him at first, waiting until the memory settles itself back to where it belongs-- not fresh and sharp on her skin, but deep within her. And then, her eyes flicking to his face, she nods.
He doesn't reach out to her. He doesn't tell her she's safe or that he's sorry for what she's been through. He's not even asking.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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How many participants know about your Leader?
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[ Dorothy. ]
Though there's someone I'll also need to speak to about it.
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Before he can even think to ask, the bubble pops against his shoulder from behind.]
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The gun is held by a steady hand, even as Dorothy's lips move soundlessly for a second, a clear moment of indecision flashing in her eyes.
And then the girl speaks, wistfully.
"Dorothy. You were always like the wind. So light and free."
She reaches into her coat and Dorothy warningly jerks the gun up, a pleading tone entering her voice.
"Stop it, Prefect. I don't want to shoot a friend."
The girl pauses, then smiles warmly. "Thank you." As she continues to speak, she slips a gun out of her coat. Dorothy stiffens, tense, but Prefect doesn't point the gun at her. "Because you were kind enough to call me your friend, I'll give you a Christmas present."
The gun moves up, closer to her temple. "A free pass, to get you out of shooting your friend."
"Don't do this, Prefect!"
The desperation is palpable in Dorothy's voice now as tears form in her eyes; she didn't want this. She didn't want any of this, she should have tried harder to reach out to her, she should have knocked the gun away, she should have known that things weren't fine between them, had she missed a sign, any kind of sign that Prefect had been begging for help this whole time?
Prefect smiles with equally teary eyes and presses the barrel of the gun to her head.
"Goodbye, Dorothy."
She pulls the trigger and then, as Dorothy fruitlessly reaches out, a shot rings out, blood spills down her face and her body topples over to the side.
And then, abruptly, the memory is gone and Dorothy sits there in stunned silence, only remembering to draw in a shaky breath after a few seconds. ]
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He recalls Prefect from last week. It dawns on him now that she must've been the reason for the first lesson when he attempted to hang himself. Dorothy's panic back then suddenly makes that much more sense: she is still grieving.
The silence is drawn out by Dorothy and Rufus both as the latter processes the heavy memory. Then he straightens.]
Have you found your teammates?
[It's debatable how much time is enough to truly process something like that for the memory's owner. They don't have the luxury of anything longer than this, though. Even if she hasn't shared her Leader with anyone else, it doesn't mean she hasn't learned the Leaders of others.]
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But she makes a visible effort to pull herself together, suddenly pale and troubled as she is. Rufus' curtness may drive others back, but honestly, it's a blessing right now because it doesn't let her fall into the turmoil of her own thoughts.
Still, her eyes are a little dark when she looks up at him again, her voice quieter. ]
Not all of them. But enough.
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He orders a glass of water and takes a sip while she pulls herself together, filling the silence with equally quiet action. Noise would just be an unnecessary distraction. After the third sip, their eyes meet.]
Has Fox recovered another memory yet?
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No, not yet. They only asked that I not be reckless.
[ Can't imagine why, says the young lady with the broken leg. ]
... Have you done that new rule yet?
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No; however, I plan to.
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I didn't think you'd avoid it, but I'm glad.
[ It means Rufus has friends. She's so proud of him. ]
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Following the rules benefits the Realm. There's no reason not to do it.
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Considering how some people tried to avoid a rule the last time it made them uncomfortable, I would say pride or discomfort might be an issue.
Though not for you. [ In this case. ]
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(Rufus is nowhere to be seen. But feelings of confusion and foreboding seep into the scene as a deafening bang rings in the air.)
In the corner of a dilapidated shack, a frightened woman holds her child close. Scales spot the boy's face and shoulders as he lifts his head and whispers, "Mama?" Trembling, the mother gives her child one last squeeze before tucking him away to safety and dashing for the door.
(Something about all of that aches.)
Outside, a man holds an injured, kneeling man at gunpoint. The mother bursts into the scene, huffing.
"Darling! Stop it, Tristan!"
The injured man's eyes widen as he snaps his head in her direction.
"No! Don't come out! Stay there!"
"Hey," says Tristan, turning to the mother, "it's been a while. Shouldn't you be saying, 'Thank you,' instead of 'stop'? I let you guys meet again."
"No!" shouts the man. "You . . . used her to catch me."
"Good for you! So you came, knowing it was a trap?" Tristan exhales through his nose, looking entirely too inconvenienced by these turn of events. "Look, Legis. I worked hard. Do you know how much I spent to resurrect Melanie? Of course, your son is paying the debt."
Legis gives a muted gasp before his expression contorts into a glower.
"Rufus . . . You used even my son!"
Tristan chuckles.
"You don't know what your son thinks of you. Why don't we focus on this situation? Tell me where the item is. I'll tell you this right now, but don't think about killing yourself to guard your secret. I can bring you to the Tower of Memory and rifle through your head. And for making me do useless work . . . I may take my anger out on your wife and son."
"Don't touch Lass!" exclaims Melanie from where she stands.
Legis is quiet. His hand lifts away from the wound on his chest with blood staining his fingers and settles over his upright knee.
"It looks like the partner I once knew left a long time ago. Then let's die together right here!" Bellowing, Legis jumps onto his feet. A blue flame erupts from his person that burns neither his flesh nor clothes, and it rages with all the fury writ upon his face. "You will die with me, Tristan!"
The memory ends; however, the scene remains as the illusion fades. Rufus stands in a room of stone populated with scattered books. Like Legis before him, fury wells within him.
However, unlike his father, there's more. There is confusion over what he just witnessed; there is hurt at the betrayal he'd been expecting yet hadn't expected nearly enough; and, more potent than any other emotion coursing through his blood—his father's blood—there is renewed grief that rivals the love he bears for his mother as he looks to his right.
(It wasn't supposed to be this way. She wasn't meant to suffer again.)
Tears fall silently from a familiar teenager's eyes as he weeps. An elven woman speaks gently to him: "Lass, please don't cry . . . "
The true memory fades out and then in, skipping several precious seconds. Another gunshot rings out and a member of the party crumbles to his knees with a grunt. Standing a short distance away on the other side of the room, Tristan points the smoking barrel of his gun at them.]
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The injured man-- Legis. Rufus' father, the one also mentioned, which means the woman is indeed Rufus' mother. But... resurrect? Is that why she looks vaguely different? Rather, she looks human, not bearing those pointed ears she's come to associate with Rufus.
A debt. Despite herself, she hears it in her mind, clear as day.
"Oh, did he not tell you? Surely it must be the duty of the daughter to take on her father's debt when he himself can't pay up. Don't worry, love, we'll be gentle."
But it continues. Melanie and her small son being threatened, Legis reacting with fury, and then suddenly all that is gone and there's Rufus and a group of people standing in some sort of... library?
With the wave of emotions that follows, Dorothy lets her mind work to click those pieces together with what she already knows. What she's already seen. Rufus' mother had died, presumably waiting for her husband. Rufus had made arrangements to resurrect her, but had been put into debt because of it-- which explains his single-minded desire for money. She had resurrected and... been reunited with her husband and now had another child, the boy she'd seen-- Rufus' brother? And the man who had done it had taken advantage of that-- of them, of Rufus and his unwavering love for his mother.
Then the man, Tristan, must be the source of all of that rage and fury... the one Rufus had declared he would kill with his own power.
There's an ache when she thinks of her own mother, the woman who had left and never returned. But the ache only intensifies when the scene ends but the emotions remain heavy over her, like a thick blanket. Dorothy knows what it's like to be hurt and betrayed, to be furious at the circumstances and the people who would take advantage of them, to love your parents despite everything, and the grief, the pain of knowing that despite your best efforts, things had still gone terribly wrong.
And Rufus has been carrying this with him all this time, refusing to trust anyone or make connections because of where it's led him, and she finally knows why.
It's really just a single tremor that runs through her, but when Dorothy lifts her head, it's with tears sliding down her face that she doesn't even register at the moment.
It's too damn lonely. ]
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Taking a deep breath, he sets the glass down and dares a glance at Dorothy, who is . . . crying, just like Lass was. It draws a frown out of Rufus.]
. . . Please do not mind it.
[Discussing business is more important.]
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She's just going to take a few additional seconds to wipe at her eyes, looking thoroughly miserable and a little... angry. ]
I can't... not mind it. What a bastard.
[ But she takes a deep breath anyway, irritably swipes at her eyes once more. He doesn't want to talk about it. She gets it. ]
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. . . Yes.
Pride or comfort means nothing to me. If it will let me reach him, I will discard both.
[For how selfish his intentions may be, his priorities in the Realm will never waver. Follow the rules, or at least break them within reasonable boundaries.]
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It explains how he'd forged through the trials last week without protest or much of a comment. And it tells her, simply enough, that it's pointless to worry. He'll get it done.
Almost exactly like her, she can't help but think, as she'd first murmured weeks ago. Maybe that's part of the reason. ]
I get it. [ It's said rather quietly and she shifts in her seat. ]
Then do what you have to. I'll support you where I can.
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. . . I don't need support . . .
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I know you don't. It's there for when you want it.
[ And she shrugs. ]
Even if you never do.
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Will that be all?
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[ But then there's yet another bubble and Dorothy sees it right as it bumps against her shoulder and there it goes.
A little girl, likely no older than nine, lifts her heavily marked arms over her head. Defensive. Her long sleeves are ripped, tears streaking down her face, her little fingers bruised, bloody and broken as new injuries accumulate with each blow that rains down upon her.
The man that towers over her is shouting near-incoherently, his words slurred, and the stench of alcohol washes over her as a metal claw that seems to have replaced his hand comes down on her. Again. Again. Again and again and again.
Snippets can be heard through the girl's faint sobs, about how "you'll leave me, just like she did" and "you're laughin' at your old man behind his back, aint'cha" and "it ain't my fault this happened to me!!"
And it continues until the girl stops protecting herself, kneels slumped on the floor with her clothes torn and her face swollen from the force of his ire, and the man lets out a loud wail and scoops her to his chest. She stares blankly over his shoulder and he cradles the back of her head, apologies falling on deaf ears.
"Daisy, my sweet Daisy, I didn't mean it, darlin', I didn't mean it--"
Everything aches. Everything hurts. But more than that, as she stares at nothing, something stirs inside of her. More than the misery, more than that thin shred of gratitude that at least he hadn't left her like her mother had... there's a tiny spark of resolve.
No one's going to stop this. He isn't going to change. If she doesn't do something, she'll die, just like this.
It's time... to save herself. ]
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In the end, even parents can be difficult to trust. In fact, the fragments of trust broken by family are by far the hardest to piece back together. Daisy, who should've been cherished by her father, was instead beaten and blamed for a crime that wasn't hers, but her father's for shifting the responsibility onto her small shoulders in a show of the ultimate betrayal.
It's good that his apologies fell on deaf ears. It's better that she saved herself. Her father is a coward, but Dorothy is brave—nor does she plead self-gratifying forgiveness for all that she's done.
Rufus peers into the empty glass before shoving it forward and rising from his seat. If he has questions, he neglects to ask them.]
Then I will be going.
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He doesn't reach out to her. He doesn't tell her she's safe or that he's sorry for what she's been through. He's not even asking.
But that's... exactly what she needs. ]
Until next time, then.