[For all the life and motion in him, Ortus might be a graven relief cut into the lid of his own sarcophagus. He hardly breathes, barely blinks, his shoulders drawn into a line so starkly level it could be a cutting edge.
The turmoil he feels is kept within, behind the wards he has constructed of paint and blood and silence. It is a hell of a thing to say about a father. A hellish thing to say about a God. To say it of both is beyond belief, which is what people say of things they would prefer not to believe, in the comfort of cowardice.
There is a part of Ortus, the slow, solemn bulk of who he is, that wishes to turn away in denial. It would be easy. Is Gideon certain? Did she misunderstand? Does she know what she saw, what she heard, what she felt? And then it would only be a matter of averting his eyes, which is all but second nature.
Or perhaps he could agree, in tones that suggest he is baffled and disbelieving, but willing to indulge her childish misunderstandings and rebellion. Or he could meekly tell her there is nothing he could do or would do, or condemn her for her lies in a blustering rage, or, or, or, a thousand ways a person might crush another's fragile outstretched hand in a crashing door.]
We.
[He says it quietly but firmly, his hands pale at the knuckles in his lap. He finds himself very frightened, and very sure, a heady mixture that leaves him reeling even as he remains still.]
If I may presume to aid you in this. We are here to protect Harrowhark. [He bows his head in a deep, singular nod.] Howsoever I may serve, what little aid I may give, I will not shirk my duty twice.
Would you tell me what happened? How you came to know this?
[ Gideon thinks, in the chasm between her speech and his response, that it might be better if he didn't say anything at all. It's easy to slip back into bad habits. It would be quicker. Message delivered and received, and that's all there is to it.
We.
Some old, dead poet that Ortus would probably like might say that brevity is the source of wit. Now, in this moment, Gideon thinks she knows what the poet means. We, like Gideon is a true and real member of the Ninth; we, like he has listened and understood. We, as in: I'm not sending you away.
Gideon, despite herself, smiles a little. It's a small, shy thing, a distant cousin to her typical easy, broad grin. ]
Well, at least you aren't kissing God's ass.
[ Or: okay, sure.
Ortus not knowing how Gideon knows all this is surprising, though. He knows about the lobotomy, so obviously he knows what it's for, right? Gideon's smile was never intended to last long, and it falters here, her expression threatening to go sullen. ]
I mean, you know. I tried to help Harrow become a Lyctor. It didn't work. When she stopped the process, I got trapped in the back of her mind like some weird, fucked-up brain ghost. I spent nine months like that, until this donkey-faced Lyctor named Mercymorn tried to kill her, and I ended up in the driver's seat instead.
Apparently, when I'm the one doing the walking and talking, my eyes show up in Harrow's face. So God and His Holy Middle Fingers had a big show-and-tell session about the Saints' fucked-up plan to use God's secret child to blow up the Tomb, and God's even worse plan to kill Harrow.
[ Gideon makes a face. ]
It was really bad. No one had a good time. Ianthe was there.
[There is, in the midst of everything else, the slightest twitch of Ortus' own mouth at Ianthe was there, an absurd bubble of joyless amusement that exists in defiance of all sense. Ortus has never cared for the surreal, in art or in life, but he is not wholly immune to it.
Otherwise, his face is still, his eyes deep and sunken, laced with a numbing horror that creeps like frost.]
We thought you lost. [He says, hushed.] That Lady Harrowhark's efforts had been only to slow an inevitability...or to salve a wound.
[Or had they looked away from a possibility that, even were it so, they could do nothing to affect help towards?]
She doubts herself overmuch. Perhaps so too did we. [He shakes his head.] To sustain the bubble in the River to prevent your consumption, all while fending off assassination at the hand of the Emperor - I cannot fathom it.
[He still does not understand what Gideon's eyes have to do with her heritage, so different from the abyssal voids of her father's, but that is detail. The broad strokes are sufficient for the tableau unfolding in his mind.]
[ Alas, Gideon Nav, who martyred herself to save her most important person in the world, has not fully processed that there might have been a non-martyr option this whole time. It's not something she likes to think about. This whole shitty story is one that she doesn't like to think about, although living in God's house makes that project awfully difficult. ]
Maybe you did. She's a creepy little bone witch, but she's a tough-as-nails creepy little bone witch. [ Gideon tries to keep her voice flat, even -- it should be possible, given that these are all objective facts -- but a little current of admiration still seeps through. ] It was -- [ time for the understatement of the century ] -- a bad time.
[ That's easy enough to acknowledge. But, oh, you should not have to endure such a thing? That doesn't add up. It doesn't make any sense. Ortus' mother had even said it herself -- she knew what befalls cavaliers. And that's true three times over for Gideon, who was a bomb to be detonated, and when that didn't work, a battery to be consumed, and when that failed, a furnace of immortality.
Gideon stiffens, any openness about sharing a goal or mission with Ortus now fully closed-off. What the hell does she say to that? Outright disagreement just sounds pathetic, but if she agreed with him even a little bit, if she started to think about what she did and didn't deserve --
-- it'd be a waste of their time, that's for sure. ]
Whatever. That -- it doesn't matter. I'm her cavalier. [ it all comes back to Harrowhark, in the end. There's something grounding about service. ] I'd do anything for her.
[Ortus knows what the eye of opportunity drawing shut looks like. He was overbold, a thing so rare that it did not occur to him that he could have been until it was done. He recalls her urgency in asserting her rights as their Lady's cavalier primary, aligns it with the armor she makes of that honor now.
It is right for a cavalier to do anything for their necromancer, even unto death, and past it. If he had been truer to his purpose, she would not have had to accept that burden, and yet to say so would be to take a thing from her she does not wish to part with.]
I do not doubt it. [He intones, quietly, drawing himself up and slightly back, his features tucked in as neatly as the edges of a sheet.] None could. You have proven yourself stalwart and true.
[There is more he might say, of the shadow of their House and the shame of its conduct, of his complicity and failings, but he has set enough of a burden at her feet for one day. He shall hold his tongue like a body, limp and lifeless.]
I ask your indulgence of my sentiment. I forget myself.
[ This is all wrong. Ortus has got it backwards. He doesn't need to feel sorry for her, doesn't need to ask for her indulgence. There's a part of Gideon, small and buried deep, that wonders if she's messed up, somehow. But second-guessing yourself doesn't get you anywhere, and Gideon reminds herself of that now. ]
It's -- you're fine.
[ Gideon tips her head back, running her fingers through her hair. Then, because emotional regulation is not one of her strengths, she lets out a rattling Ugghghghhhghhgh. ]
I know the Ninth House is, like, the master of making things weird, but you don't need my indulgence, or any of that crap. Just don't make anything weird. I'm the same hot beefcake you've always known, just, you know. I've got a new dad and a new job.
[ It happens! Very normal developments here in this run-down shack. ]
[If there is anything so incongruous as a twinkle in Ortus' eye at Gideon's tossed back, exuberant outburst of feeling, it is swiftly squelched. He is given to wallowing in his own emotions. That does not mean he is incapable of appreciation of flight.]
I am given to understand that 'making anything weird' is one of my foremost talents, aside from poetry.
[A dry, rustling effort at a joke, self-deprecation not as harsh as he might otherwise let it be. If she does not wish for him to fall on a blade (or to run him through by one), he will not gainsay her.]
I will endeavor to restrain myself from the exercising of that skill. [And then, in almost instant contradiction:] As I will strive to prove worthy of your trust.
[He smooths his robes over his knees, fastidiously, attention focused on flattening all wrinkles he can perceive. It takes as long as it may for Gideon to school her own reaction to that, whatever it might be.]
Shall we return to the house, or do you wish to remain here?
[ It takes Gideon a moment too long to realize Ortus has just made a joke, mainly because she wasn't aware? That he could do that? Not for the first time, she asks herself what the fuck has gotten into him, what with this newfound sense of humor and giving a shit about her and semi-spine.
Maybe dying rattles your brain. Maybe Gideon's brain is also rattled. Whatever, she mainly thinks with her muscles anyway.
She'll respond to the joke with a half-laugh that's closer to a snort, so he knows she's got it. And she'll ignore the comment about her trust, because that is once again a weird thing to say, and an even weirder thing to want.
(Besides. Gideon gave someone her trust. She gave someone her whole life, and they didn't even want it.) ]
Yeah, sure. That's all the news I've got.
[ Gideon rises to leave, and she almost doesn't look back to see if Ortus is following her. Almost. ]
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deercountry2022-04-13 04:55 pm
no subject
The turmoil he feels is kept within, behind the wards he has constructed of paint and blood and silence. It is a hell of a thing to say about a father. A hellish thing to say about a God. To say it of both is beyond belief, which is what people say of things they would prefer not to believe, in the comfort of cowardice.
There is a part of Ortus, the slow, solemn bulk of who he is, that wishes to turn away in denial. It would be easy. Is Gideon certain? Did she misunderstand? Does she know what she saw, what she heard, what she felt? And then it would only be a matter of averting his eyes, which is all but second nature.
Or perhaps he could agree, in tones that suggest he is baffled and disbelieving, but willing to indulge her childish misunderstandings and rebellion. Or he could meekly tell her there is nothing he could do or would do, or condemn her for her lies in a blustering rage, or, or, or, a thousand ways a person might crush another's fragile outstretched hand in a crashing door.]
We.
[He says it quietly but firmly, his hands pale at the knuckles in his lap. He finds himself very frightened, and very sure, a heady mixture that leaves him reeling even as he remains still.]
If I may presume to aid you in this. We are here to protect Harrowhark. [He bows his head in a deep, singular nod.] Howsoever I may serve, what little aid I may give, I will not shirk my duty twice.
Would you tell me what happened? How you came to know this?
no subject
We.
Some old, dead poet that Ortus would probably like might say that brevity is the source of wit. Now, in this moment, Gideon thinks she knows what the poet means. We, like Gideon is a true and real member of the Ninth; we, like he has listened and understood. We, as in: I'm not sending you away.
Gideon, despite herself, smiles a little. It's a small, shy thing, a distant cousin to her typical easy, broad grin. ]
Well, at least you aren't kissing God's ass.
[ Or: okay, sure.
Ortus not knowing how Gideon knows all this is surprising, though. He knows about the lobotomy, so obviously he knows what it's for, right? Gideon's smile was never intended to last long, and it falters here, her expression threatening to go sullen. ]
I mean, you know. I tried to help Harrow become a Lyctor. It didn't work. When she stopped the process, I got trapped in the back of her mind like some weird, fucked-up brain ghost. I spent nine months like that, until this donkey-faced Lyctor named Mercymorn tried to kill her, and I ended up in the driver's seat instead.
Apparently, when I'm the one doing the walking and talking, my eyes show up in Harrow's face. So God and His Holy Middle Fingers had a big show-and-tell session about the Saints' fucked-up plan to use God's secret child to blow up the Tomb, and God's even worse plan to kill Harrow.
[ Gideon makes a face. ]
It was really bad. No one had a good time. Ianthe was there.
no subject
Otherwise, his face is still, his eyes deep and sunken, laced with a numbing horror that creeps like frost.]
We thought you lost. [He says, hushed.] That Lady Harrowhark's efforts had been only to slow an inevitability...or to salve a wound.
[Or had they looked away from a possibility that, even were it so, they could do nothing to affect help towards?]
She doubts herself overmuch. Perhaps so too did we. [He shakes his head.] To sustain the bubble in the River to prevent your consumption, all while fending off assassination at the hand of the Emperor - I cannot fathom it.
[He still does not understand what Gideon's eyes have to do with her heritage, so different from the abyssal voids of her father's, but that is detail. The broad strokes are sufficient for the tableau unfolding in his mind.]
You should not have had to endure such a thing.
no subject
Maybe you did. She's a creepy little bone witch, but she's a tough-as-nails creepy little bone witch. [ Gideon tries to keep her voice flat, even -- it should be possible, given that these are all objective facts -- but a little current of admiration still seeps through. ] It was -- [ time for the understatement of the century ] -- a bad time.
[ That's easy enough to acknowledge. But, oh, you should not have to endure such a thing? That doesn't add up. It doesn't make any sense. Ortus' mother had even said it herself -- she knew what befalls cavaliers. And that's true three times over for Gideon, who was a bomb to be detonated, and when that didn't work, a battery to be consumed, and when that failed, a furnace of immortality.
Gideon stiffens, any openness about sharing a goal or mission with Ortus now fully closed-off. What the hell does she say to that? Outright disagreement just sounds pathetic, but if she agreed with him even a little bit, if she started to think about what she did and didn't deserve --
-- it'd be a waste of their time, that's for sure. ]
Whatever. That -- it doesn't matter. I'm her cavalier. [ it all comes back to Harrowhark, in the end. There's something grounding about service. ] I'd do anything for her.
no subject
It is right for a cavalier to do anything for their necromancer, even unto death, and past it. If he had been truer to his purpose, she would not have had to accept that burden, and yet to say so would be to take a thing from her she does not wish to part with.]
I do not doubt it. [He intones, quietly, drawing himself up and slightly back, his features tucked in as neatly as the edges of a sheet.] None could. You have proven yourself stalwart and true.
[There is more he might say, of the shadow of their House and the shame of its conduct, of his complicity and failings, but he has set enough of a burden at her feet for one day. He shall hold his tongue like a body, limp and lifeless.]
I ask your indulgence of my sentiment. I forget myself.
no subject
It's -- you're fine.
[ Gideon tips her head back, running her fingers through her hair. Then, because emotional regulation is not one of her strengths, she lets out a rattling Ugghghghhhghhgh. ]
I know the Ninth House is, like, the master of making things weird, but you don't need my indulgence, or any of that crap. Just don't make anything weird. I'm the same hot beefcake you've always known, just, you know. I've got a new dad and a new job.
[ It happens! Very normal developments here in this run-down shack. ]
no subject
I am given to understand that 'making anything weird' is one of my foremost talents, aside from poetry.
[A dry, rustling effort at a joke, self-deprecation not as harsh as he might otherwise let it be. If she does not wish for him to fall on a blade (or to run him through by one), he will not gainsay her.]
I will endeavor to restrain myself from the exercising of that skill. [And then, in almost instant contradiction:] As I will strive to prove worthy of your trust.
[He smooths his robes over his knees, fastidiously, attention focused on flattening all wrinkles he can perceive. It takes as long as it may for Gideon to school her own reaction to that, whatever it might be.]
Shall we return to the house, or do you wish to remain here?
no subject
Maybe dying rattles your brain. Maybe Gideon's brain is also rattled. Whatever, she mainly thinks with her muscles anyway.
She'll respond to the joke with a half-laugh that's closer to a snort, so he knows she's got it. And she'll ignore the comment about her trust, because that is once again a weird thing to say, and an even weirder thing to want.
(Besides. Gideon gave someone her trust. She gave someone her whole life, and they didn't even want it.) ]
Yeah, sure. That's all the news I've got.
[ Gideon rises to leave, and she almost doesn't look back to see if Ortus is following her. Almost. ]