deercountry | The Clock Froze Around Midnight, I Can Feel It In The Room [October Catchall, OTA]

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The Clock Froze Around Midnight, I Can Feel It In The Room [October Catchall, OTA]

Who: L Lawliet (Lazarus Sauveterre) and CR old and new
What: Catchall for October; includes event prompts and slice of life wildcards.
When: Throughout the month, dates are ambiguous unless otherwise noted
Where: Various places in Trench (flexible unless specifically noted)

[October is a season of change and loss, and in Trench, it’s not really any different. L nevertheless feels a sense of restlessness that manifests in snappishness and irritability; exceeding what usually visits him in the ambivalent season of his birth.

He goes about his business anyway, keeping to his own odd schedules and doings in a mostly solitary routine. He avoids contact with others this month, not least because the typically stoic detective is struggling to discern when his mood will shift and his tears might start flowing and refuse to stop.

It’s better, perhaps, to guard what he’s always known to be raw in a month where he can feel it so keenly and plaintively.]

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[Mercymorn hates this sea. She hates how it mocks her with each white-capped, careless wavelet, with the chill, complex scent of the cooling saltwater heralding an unwelcome change of seasons. She hates what it will not do for her, no matter how much she wills it to, and she hates it for having her brought her to these shores, and she hates what the saltwind does to her fine, unbound hair.

But Cytherea always loved the sea.

They sit together on a woollen blanket spread across the sand, watching the rosy gold fingers of dawn take hold of the horizon, the dark sea lit up gloriously in the first light of coming winter. Another blanket is tucked around Cytherea's narrow shoulders, cushioning her against the slight hillock Mercy carved out to cradle her more perfectly, and it barely shifts at the wet, losing struggle of her breathing. Her delicate curls emerge from beneath the lace of a small muslin cap, and even at this early hour, with only the two of them, Mercy took the time to curl her eyelashes and brush them dark, to daub a shine of gloss upon her parted lips, to wrap her in a lovely, sleek robe over her whimsically ruffled white nightgown and tiny slippers - and, of course, to refresh the green blood ward painted in eye-aching swirls upon her forehead.

Mercy wears the sweater and the leggings she did not sleep in, curled up next to Cytherea's body in the dark, her arms around her waist and her face against her shoulder. She watches the young man and his own companion approach across the sand with eyes sunken into dark, seaweed coloured half-circles, and there is a shadow in them worse than sleeplessness.]

Look. [She says, to the still-breathing corpse at her side.] Guests.

[On the dawn of his own lonely, forsaken, cursed birthday, when up is down and death is life, it makes sense, in a strange way, that L would be a guest.

He approaches the necromancer he knows a little too well, and the legendary ghost he doesn't know at all, sitting like lovers on the beach at sunrise. It doesn't occur to him that he might be intruding; perhaps it's the strange, reckless grace granted to those who are running low on things to lose, whose home and hearth have been recently shaken and displaced.

His bed, certainly, has been emptier and colder since his boyfriend slipped back to the sea and left him questioning whether his own shortcomings had hastened the departure. He thinks it's not what he's meant for, not what he can have, and the glacial pace it would take to earn his trust and become known on both sides isn't sustainable.

And yet, the woman with the fine rose-gold hair had made him come exactly once. More than his boyfriend ever had, or anyone else. Even if it's a strange and dirty secret, it draws his steps closer to their place on the beach.

He hadn't caught the murmured words spoken between them, only realizing that they're meant in confidence. He understands; when Light Yagami's violent ghost had haunted his steps, he'd fallen over himself to whisper secrets he'd tell no one else, Samson offering ropes and ribbons of hair for the cutting to one who couldn't hold a sword or shears.]

It's early to be out like this.

[Smudged with muddy sand, unwashed and unfed, L says this as though he has any space at all to talk. His ghostly stalker, burned face distorted, soundlessly mocks the way he speaks. A muscle twitches near the scarred, shiny, thick mouth.]

[It doesn't occur to Mercymorn either that Lazarus might be intruding, which is stranger yet. It may be that this is, after, an open beach, free to anyone. It may be that the barriers already breached between them are such that anything less intimate no longer seems to matter. Or, the possibility that may be worst of all, as Lazarus and his hideous, mocking double close in, is that there is some treacherous, human part of her that takes furtive, ugly relief in seeing him.

He is someone else who knows the name of the woman at her side, although he doesn't know that yet, unless he knows even more than she suspects. He is someone she shares a secret with still unbreached, and as she tips her head towards the unclaimed space beside her - enough of it that closeness may be easily avoided, this blanket overlarge for only two - she holds that secret on her tongue like the remembered taste of his blood.]

Not, evidently, if you slept here. Sit.

[It isn't a request, but she won't chide him if he doesn't obey. Not for that, not here.

John had found her dalliance with the karate man more amusing than anything, in the end. None of them ever were overly concerned with fidelity of the body, which was such an ephermeal thing, over such a long time. What had cut him glancingly was the implication of her lack of faith - and if the bumbling boasts of an unclever man could displease him, how much worse would it be to know she felt the warm shudder of this particular adversary against her thigh, drank of both his heresy and his blood? That she had shared in the most intimate of their secrets with a stranger, as if they truly were nothing to her, as he had made her nothing to him?

She thinks he wouldn't like it very much at all, and he would like this only slightly more.]

This is Cytherea Loveday. [She touches the corpse's shoulder; its delicate neck bends, as if to cushion her cheek on Mercy's hand, but her foggy eyes stare out flatly at the capering imp-shadow behind Lazarus.] Cytherea, this is Lazarus Sauveterre.

[Some form of relief, at least, might be mutual. L has spent a night alone and cold, approached by his own Pthumerian and no other, left to sleep on the sand for no one in this entire world to object. Now he's upright and wandering, and twenty-six, really a man, at this age, and who is to tell him what he's done, or might do, and how it might be wrong?

His eyes brim with tears, but after this many days in a month of tearful palebloods, turning with the light and taking moments to steady his breath and artfully use his sleeve have become second nature to the detective.

The request that is not a request requires no further chiding. He obeys softly, easily. thin legs folding beneath him beside Mercy, with Cytherea opposite her.

B's ghost, still unrealized to him, sits softly and unhappily nearby, imitating the unpracticed and awkward way that L does. He's spent relatively little time in his life around women, and the one who had made him require new trousers is obviously in another class entirely.]

Cytherea Loveday? Nice name.

[He comments as much, seeing that the woman looks frail and dead, but making sure not to say so. Instead, he listens to the way Mercy says his name, the one he chose, like it's actually real and actually promises safe purchase on good land.]

I remember, from the book. She meant something to you.

[He says "something" as though it means "everything," and it is not a mistake.]

[Lazarus' boldness shouldn't surprise her. That it manages to do so even slightly earns him a contemplative sideways look that has the traces of a lack of disapproval. She does not notice the tears with a deliberateness that could almost be called generous for that. (After months of Harrowhark, she has renewed practice in overlooking the helpless, involuntary markers of distress.)]

It's a dreadful name. Morbidly sentimental. [She addresses this to the dead woman, whose fixed stare still fails to strike Lazarus at all, something easy to misinterpret as a property of acuity lost in death.] But it was the one she wanted...and she always wanted so very little anyone could give her.

[Her tenderness is shameless as she strokes her knuckles across that cold cheek. Cytherea stirs restlessly in her bundling, a new rasp entering her already horrid breathing, and Mercy withdraws her hand.]

She was my sister-Saint. Another of God's Lyctors. She died trying to bring him back to the place he must not go, the one that would have toppled the Empire...or that's what she hoped. [Perhaps that, like so much else, had been a lie.] He thought she only wanted to die. He always had such trouble believing any of us could be really, truly angry with him.

But I knew she meant it.

[It's like and unlike the eulogy she gave at that horrible funeral, the air clotted with roses. Cytherea would have disliked both, Mercymorn thinks, but that's the thing about being dead: your opinions aren't nearly as important as they used to be.]

What's yours called? That shambling menace. [She looks back to Lazarus, jerking her chin at it.] A sibling of your own? How this place spits up family reunions...blech.

[The women in L's life have usually worn disapproval like a mantel. He's not unfamiliar, and does not flinch away from the way he's regarded by Mercy. If anyone would, that way, wouldn't it be her?]

I suppose I know what that's like. To ask for something, and know that asking for it is the limit.

[He hangs onto every word. While John is not his god, those who would call him that have so much to offer him.

He seems startled by her question, and unsettled.]

There is none by my side; there never is. I'm quite always alone.

[As though it is not only a contradiction, but a point of defiant pride.]

I have no siblings; no mother, no father, no cousins or aunts or uncles. I'm alone.

[Mercy takes that in with her eyebrows quirked upwards, uncharacteristic patience in her attention. He'd shown her another set of faces the last they met. This is something new. It might have much to do with why he's out here so insistently alone, except for her, his unexpected rendezvous.]

Is that so?

[She sits up straight, grasping the hem of her oversized sweater to skin it off herself with smooth efficiency. She has a ribbed undershirt beneath it for a last refuge of modesty, and nothing beneath that for a lack of caring to bother, but her skin does not pebble with chill as she tosses the sweater at him. She judges it will fit. She stole it from someone of his very height. It's a dark grey knit, and it smells like her, the faint, mutedly peachy scent that seems to cling to her no matter what she does.]

Swap out that coat until it's dry, and cover up your legs with the rest of the blanket. You're making me remember it's cold.

[There's no pity in her, only a brisk factualness. He looks miserable in his dampness, and she has more than enough miserable things to look at as it is.]

This aloneness of yours - an inherited condition, or one you developed over time?

Edited 2022-10-24 06:40 (UTC)

[His blanched cheeks seem a little pinker when she strips so brazenly out of her sweater. He doesn't want to take it at first, understanding that his own dampness is is own fault after a night on the beach, but something about the way she says it have his complying easily, nearly automatically.

Maybe it's something about motherless men, a desire to follow that sort of command from a woman whose mouth can set stern.]

You make it sound like you'd forgotten the cold.

[He grumbles as much, but follows her instructions, trying not to stare at what puckers and pricks out from beneath her undershirt.]

Both, I suppose? Inflicted, and then accommodated. It's not important.

[The ghost that follows him seems to spit.]

What of yours? Mine can't be so interesting.

[There is a calm to how Mercy holds herself under Lazarus' efforts not to look that neither encourages or forbids, but permits. She does not do anything as vulgar as display herself, or commit to the even worse vulgarity of attempting to cover up. She is as unselfconscious as a figure carved of rosy marble, a vessel for the expression of an art.

She leans back on her palms, legs folded in front of her, freshly mussed hair blown across her face as she looks out to sea.]

I do forget the cold. [She says, quietly.] My aloneness is hardly interesting. It's only old.

[It's a crystal bell cracked in her heart. It's a dead woman twitching at her side as she fixes on the unkind shadow at Lazarus' side he cannot see. It is forgetting being cold because of forgetting warmth at all.]

Inflicted, and then accommodated. I suppose you must have made yourself useful. No one can stand it otherwise.

[She doesn't make an effort to pretend not to speak from experience, but she expends as much effort on self-pity as she did pity, which is to say none.]

Old has the time to become interesting. Most mortal things don't.

[The opposite is also true; old has the time to become truly boring as well. But if he thought this was true for Mercymorn, they wouldn't be here like this; he'd simply have wandered by with his unseen, mocking shadow.]

If a person has enough emotional resilience, of course it's possible to stand it, otherwise.

[But the slight flush in his cheeks has ebbed. It's unusual, practically unheard of, for someone to peg him so quickly and accurately. The bullseye stings, more keenly because L is used to people not even noticing the dart board.]

I suppose you'd know something about it, even if it's only old, and hardly interesting.

[Of course he isn't so easily fobbed off. She knows the lengths he's willing to go to for information, and she expects that everything she might tell him will be snapped up and tucked away in some shadowy crevice for future contemplation.

It's so unusual to ever capture so much of someone's attention without demanding it. She can hardly be blamed for taking her time with it. Besides: this is a less fraught realm of the treacherous kingdom of isolation.]

But who ever bothers to cultivate resilience?

[Her tiredness is sour and ancient as she promised it might be, her oval face hardened like a polished opal.]

It's much easier to condemn the creature of necessity than to cosset it, is what I know about it - and that, if you must wonder, is why I am out here, on this dingy little beach, instead of closed up in that very unGodforsaken house.

[He blinks his overlarge eyes, peering at her as though genuinely surprised she might not know this. He doesn't, after all, believe that he read her wrong.]

Resilience is what happens when you love something more than anyone in the whole world will ever love you. I'd have thought you knew that.

[His eyes are flinty and hard, but the creature at his side looks simultaneously devastated and furious, as though he's been gravely insulted or struck through the heart. Unseen hands wrap around L's throat; it might as well be the mist rolling in over the sea.]

Spite is a form of sustenance, and so... you would be out here, I think. John won't take your friend from you, out here.

[It's her turn to look at him with dark, hollow eyes veiled by her light-colored lashes. Her attention flicks only the once to the ghost's hand useless at his throat, but Cytherea stirs sufficiently that Mercy lays her hands over where Cytherea's rest beneath the blanket she's swathed in.]

Take her from me?

[If spite is a form of sustenance, an army could grow fat on the venom Mercy sinks into that indictment. Cytherea shudders and sucks worthless air, and Mercy pivots to her, lifting the taller body up and forward with practiced skill, rubbing her back in a small, purposeful circle.]

He'd have to admit that she wasn't his at all to take her from me...so he never will. Presumption is one of his most dreadful habits - but what am I saying? You already seem to have it all so neatly stitched up. I hardly have to tell you anything!

[He's stung her back, and the barbs come quick to her tongue in answer.]

[His gaze lingers, oddly and curiously, on the way Mercy dotes on the girl who is, so clearly and tragically, either dead or near enough that it wouldn't matter either way. Serious, indeed, if an immortal necromancer can't touch it, or else it's a feature-not-a-bug that allows that immortal necromancer to exist at all.

He half-raises his thin hands, a gesture that is more placating surrender than possible to perceive as any kind of threat.]

I have my guesses at the truth. They're not usually pleasant... it's why I'm alone today, and most days.

[He's not even a prophet, he thinks numbly. He just has inconvenient instincts and bleak understanding of selfish hunger and jealous pride, and he has realized, over years, that he might not even need more to see the hearts of humans.]

There truly is a lot I don't know. At least, I hope so, or I struggle to discern a point to it all.

[The gesture of submission does seem to soothe some of her puffed spikiness when she catches a glimpse of it sideways, slender hands and dark hair paired with that lent sweater. She breathes out through her nose like something industrial venting, and it's not far from the truth. Even this long perfected adjustment to Cytherea's so familiar lungs taxes her, these days. Sweat has broken out across her exposed skin, though blessedly, it isn't streaked with blood.]

But your guesses tend to be closer to the mark than most...which is much more why you're disliked than their relative pleasantness. People swallow all kinds of hideous lies, as long as they fit what they already believe, or flatter their cynicism, or happen to be convenient...but ugly truths? That's what they balk at.

[She clucks her tongue, though not at him, a little popping burst of sound.]

Consider that my guess. I, too, strive to keep them educated, rather than pleasant.

[Mercy contemplates Lazarus' double again, clinging and loathsome.]

Pleasantness is another word for insipid, if we are being honest, and I did not come out here in search of yet more saccharine pap. Be unpleasant as you like.

[The perspiration draws L's attention and curiosity, chilled as he is even wearing the borrowed sweater. Several possibilities present, from illness to strain, and none are exactly comforting.]

Your guess is as on the mark as mine tend to be.

[I'll admit that I guess you do get it. Most don't, including the burned-up phantom that follows him hatefully.]

I like having the luxury of being honest. The unpleasantness is merely a side effect that typically can't be helped without a heaping side of artifice. It goes without saying that you can be unpleasant if you want, too.

May I?

[Despite the mutual permission to be unpleasant, Mercy's rhetorical query is not. The hardness of her expression gives into contemplative serenity as she holds him fully in her eyes, head tilted heedless of the loose strands falling across her face even as she persists in her ritual appeasement of her own hungry ghost. Her hair sticks to her shining damp until she tucks it back behind her ear.]

I do prefer honesty, luxury that it is...and whether it went without saying or not, you did say it.

[It's still such a novelty to have him address her as though they exist on the same plane. As if she is a human being who may be given consideration or not, spoken to as one person speaks to another, and not as a saint or a monster, or the horrid combination of the two.]

I did consider your proposal. [She says, as if it was moments ago, not months between their encounters.] The answer is yes. I will be your ally. You certainly seem to need another, given the one you already have.

You do have a ghost. It looks like you, but horrid, and run through a kiln to bake slanted wrong.

Edited 2022-10-27 01:16 (UTC)

[He reserves any comment for after he's heard her fully. He sensed, early on, that she evaluates details in a manner not dissimilar to his own, and he'd prefer not to fail a decisive test or reveal himself to be either overeager or unaware of the gesture's significance.

He nods comprehension, but while he's still formulating an outline of terms they might agree to to ensure the alliance's long-term suggest, she makes an observation that surprises and shakes him. He glances over his shoulder, seeing nothing, but still disturbed by a very accurate description of someone he did, in fact, know.]

I hadn't known. He would look like that... but he wasn't run through a kiln. He doused himself with gasoline and set himself on fire, then lived for a few more years, to his chagrin.

Does he at least seem glad that you think we look alike? If you could make a ghost's day, you probably made his.

[The ghost soundlessly grinds his teeth, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring down L with his good eye.]

[Like recognizes like recognizes like. It is a pattern Mercy is too old not to be aware of, and one that motivates her to dispose of so many of the niceties and pretenses of acquaintanceship. When she is incorrect about him, as she expects to be, she will also expect to be corrected if it serves his ends to do so, and allowed to languish in ignorance if it does not. That's already a stronger foundation than most allegiances she's formed in the past five thousand years or so.

She can make certain educated guesses about Lazarus, but she is struck again as he speaks of his companion how limited the extent of them are compared to most of the tedious, predictable people she might meet. A small quirk touches the corner of her mouth as she draws her own ghost in to lean against her, breathing still ragged, but not so desperately torn.]

You aren't a necromancer. It can't be helped.

[She shrugs, loosely. It is what it is.]

Now, why would he do something as dramatic as that? And no - he seems terribly displeased, as a rule. Thus, the mention.

[The blunt observation is a nettling little reminder. L isn’t a necromancer, and there are therefore ways he will never be on the Emperor’s level, or even Mercymorn’s. It means that he has to be devious and creative and clever and careful, to compensate for being, after all, just a man.]

He had an obsession. Obsessions destroy people.

[There’s a lovely irony to L saying these things about someone else.]

Not before making them indestructible, for a little while. It’s the kind of fierce and pure focus that takes on its own life and motivations.

[He suspects she knows exactly what that’s like. Perhaps for her ghost; perhaps for another she burns for, with love and fury.]

[Cytherea's dead eyes finally roll off her fellow ghost and stick to the flesh and blood man, blue as chemical shocked pools underneath their corpse haze. When she shows him her teeth, more a drawing away of curtains on a stage than a snarl, they're pink with blood. She does not stir from lolling against Mercy's side, otherwise, and there is no malice in her regard, only something too diffuse to be interest, too present to be insensibility.]

Or for a long while.

[Mercy says, and even the words feel eroded in her mouth. They coat her tongue like silt.]

Did he realize it, in the end? His obsession?

[You, she might as well say, although she cannot guess in what way, but: you, you, scrawled plain to see all over this botched imitator desperate for attention he couldn't receive even if Lazarus saw fit to bestow it on him.]

Or was it all for nothing?

Edited 2022-10-31 07:54 (UTC)

[L's dark grey eyes meet the apparition's, unflinching though it's an uncomfortable, perhaps even a painful, shade of blue to behold. Is she smiling or grimacing? Something in-between? Something not quite successful due to her physical limitations? What does near-death do to the expressions that humans recognize as like to them?]

I don't know what he realized, at the end. We had nothing left to talk about. It could have been different, if he hadn't killed so many innocent people, but...

[He trails off. If he hadn't killed so many innocent people, odds are that L's notice wouldn't have focused so swiftly on his failed successor.

She knows. He can see, clear as day, that she knows that he is the objective, the reason, the figurehead. Can she guess that there were others, as well?]

It was all such a terrible waste, if that makes it "for nothing."

[He cants his head, considering Cytherea, her strange countenance and the fierce, protective way that the women with the rose-gold hair remains at her side.]

You said something very true a few moments ago: I'm not a necromancer. What makes her different from Gideon? As she is, now, I mean. There, but not? I can't see him, so... I don't know if it's the same, with Beyond.

[He names his ghost, and the reaction he can't see is one of shock and offense. It's as though L swore in a holy place, to voice the name aloud.]

[Another person, on their second meeting with a stranger who has done so little to endear himself beyond declarations of honesty any liar could fashion, would do something to conceal their curdled hurt at terrible waste. They might do something to staunch the wound that opens so readily in Mercy's grievous regard of that sweeping pronouncement.

But that person would not be Mercy, whose hunger parts like an ancient sea on either side of him, looming and withheld. If there is pain in it, it is the pain of a glutton, unslaked, avid for another round of the same course.]

Cytherea isn't his creature.

[Mercy strokes her fingertips up the corpse's elbow, nudging and negotiating her back into her shallow hummock. Her eyes only flit lightly to Lazarus' ghost, skating back as if he (Beyond; now, there's a name) has lost intrigue for her.]

That's what he despises about so many of these ghosts, you should know. That they aren't his creatures. [Mercy twists to rearrange the blankets neatly around Cytherea's shoulders, as habitual as the clearing of her lungs.] The Ninth infant is his construct. She 'lives', or dies, or ceases to be, at his beck and call. A necromancer has ultimate power over their construct, in nearly all cases...but for things like my lost sister, and your avid ghost? Those are creations of an art we have yet to apprehend.

[These are not secrets. These are things any school aged necromancer might all but intuit at the briefest exposure to this world's reordered rules of death's dominion. But to an outsider, deprived of the art? Mercy can't imagine, except for what she catches out of the corner of her eyes.]

But I'd be up for putting a ghost ward on you, if you'd like. Gesture of good faith, for whatever that's worth. [When she looks back to him, her hands are tucked between her inward tilted knees, the traces of her want still about her unshuttered eyes.] To keep from harming you - to banish entirely - your choice, really. Your spit, your blood, or mine. I'd advise the first, when it comes to necromancers. Saliva is less potent than blood both ways.

[It's been centuries, more, since she had such an unknown pupil. She does not even begin to know what he does not know. Potential curricula unfold before her like horizons.]

[L is beholden to a great deal, in his life. There's the duty of a civil servant, of course. There's the restraint of reputation, and the deprivation of being a consummate professional. But being beholden to another man, especially one who calls himself "God," is where he balks and demands his freedom. He can think of nothing worse than being one of his creatures, and nothing more beloved than being what John hates.

He listens and retains. If he were a school-aged necromancer, he'd be learning and on his way towards greatness. As a mere man, in the presence of someone 10,000 years old with unspeakable power, he can only listen and retain.

And yet.]

You'd offer that? I'd want him gone, of course. Letting him remain, and merely removing his ability to harm me, would insult what he burned his life away for. I want to keep my life, but in my way, I can't help but honor the reason he burned, even if it only existed in his own mind.

[Don't defang him, just to keep him shackled here with his obsession and his insanity. That's the worst thing I can think of; that's the worst thing John could do to me, in some horrible and unspeakable future.]

For a ward... why is less potent more desirable?

[With her hands stuck between her knees and her hair all in disarray about her, the slope of Mercy's dawning smile might have something of the classroom about it yet, the often wished for but rarely bestowed subtle warmth of the strictest of schoolteachers beneath a calculus level. Mercy thinks it might be the kind of smile that they would have all had her grant to Harrowhark, doomed, damned infant that she was, and is.

But she'd had nothing of any value to Harrow to teach. Here, there are so many new arrows to place in this young man's bristling quiver, and such satisfaction to take in being the one to give them to him.]

Blood carries a stronger imprint of the flesh and the soul. With blood, it's easier to place a curse, or break a ward. It's a substance that can be wielded immediately, or simply held against you for some future date, even if the thalergic energy within depletes rapidly. Saliva is a weaker resonance, and because it's of you, the wards crafted of it won't do you harm.

[Her smile deepens as her back straightens. She reaches a hand out to touch below his closest knee through the cushioning of the woollen blanket she instructed him to pull over his poor, lonesome limbs.]

A lesser necromancer might require your blood to craft a true banishing ward, but I am not a lesser necromancer. [If she's certain of nothing else, she's certain of that.] It's more desirable for you, and less for me.

If we are attempting honesty, you and I, I might as well start with a weakness, don't you think?

cw: corpses, blood

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cw: chronic illness

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