[ She doesn't see. She doesn't see, and doesn't doubt for a moment where she stands. The world is mist and shadows to her eyes, but nowhere else do mist and shadows hum quite the way they do here. Her steps halt when she feels her feet just peeking over the edge, when dust from the floating ruins crumbles underneath her weight quietly, falling like snow into cerulean nothingness.
Oh, but she mustn't let it crumble on her shoes, not when she will meet him again at last. They are still polished leather in her mind, brilliant stones lining buckles of gold. She will dance in them tonight. ]
Do you remember the young girl, love? She never told you, but her hands trembled, the first time she drew her blade across the bones... so, so many years ago.
[ Wistfully her fingers stroke the pale disc in her hands. She has already memorised every single line, from the moment she carved it. They are smooth and clean, and she holds the rune in front of her chest, as if she were offering it to the Void itself. ]
She can do so much better now, you made her so much better, love.
[He remembers. It has been centuries, it has been moments, it never mattered how much time has passed. Time is of no consequence to the Void, and barely of any for him. For her, on the other hand... well.
It isn't that she has grown old. That the polish has worn off, that neither her voice nor her hands are smooth anymore. Far more than that, what has contributed to his growing disinterest is that she has begun to be predictable. She's begun to use her powers with no regard for anyone but herself, and he's been tired of that for millennia. Neither devotion nor obsession have ever been enough to earn his favour or so much as his attention, and yet - and yet there's those moments. Moments when her brilliance still shines, moments when she's truly unpredictable in her destruction.
For those, he will humor her.
And so he appears, a blur of black she likely cannot see, but that makes no matter. She knows his voice, better than anyone alive, and he reaches out to accept her offering.]
You did well even then, despite the trembling hands.
[ The Void is bright, that much she still sees. The darkness must be where she finds him, that much she still remembers. Always, always hiding where the weak hearts and simple minds are too fearful to tread. But she came to him, all the way to the Far Continent, trembling only ever from excitement, never fear. But that was so long ago.
Too long ago, that is her measure of time for too many things now. Too long since the days of silk, no, no, no more such skin or fabrics or voice at all. Rough it is all now, like the weather. Like the way her beloved treats her. Every day she sets the altar, a dutiful wife's calling from his shrine; and so rarely does he answer her call.
Morsel or feast, it makes no matter what she offers. Too long ago, since he last came to dine, and at the end of the day only her birds sing their songs of gratitude.
It does not behoove a lady of her station to pine, and yet... ]
Will you show me more?
[ And yet the sound of her voice betrays the agonizing hopes of a much younger girl. ]
[ Each of his chosen makes the Void a different place. Some shattered, some growing. Hers has become a sprawling thing, a vibrant map of memories, a patchwork of different scenes from anywhere in the world at all, Dunwall sewers and vast plains littered with dry and huge and ancient bones, ship decks and caves deep in blood red stone.
Her question makes him smile, which is not a pretty thing by any means, though she cannot see. For all her magic, and despite her body bound by it to always recover again, she is not immune to the decay that beckons all mortal things. Not merely in body, either. The Void is far too immense for any human mind to stand, and yet she keeps reaching for it like a moth returning to the candleflame. It grinds her mind down to splinters, slowly but surely, and still she does not falter. Unrelenting in what she wants, even if it destroys everything else around her. (Herself too. Just in ways she doesn't care to acknowledge.) Does she accept this as a consequence, or does she not care? Or is she even aware of it anymore?
The rune vanishes between their hands. He lets her old and calloused ones fall upon his own instead, which are cold and always just a little bit damp, but otherwise hands just like a human's. He runs his thumb over her knuckles, the gesture imitated from someone else's intimacy that he does not share the sentiment of. ]
My dear, faithful Vera. What would you like to know?
[ And he stands before her, even though his feet have no visible ground to brace themselves against. Now he is not so tall, not imposing in figure, but they both know she knows better. Knows far more of what he is than most. Yes, he will give her more of his gifts, like he will give those who are drowning more rocks to break their bodies on. Of course. And she will be beautifully terrifying. ]
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no subject
Oh, but she mustn't let it crumble on her shoes, not when she will meet him again at last. They are still polished leather in her mind, brilliant stones lining buckles of gold. She will dance in them tonight. ]
Do you remember the young girl, love? She never told you, but her hands trembled, the first time she drew her blade across the bones... so, so many years ago.
[ Wistfully her fingers stroke the pale disc in her hands. She has already memorised every single line, from the moment she carved it. They are smooth and clean, and she holds the rune in front of her chest, as if she were offering it to the Void itself. ]
She can do so much better now, you made her so much better, love.
no subject
It isn't that she has grown old. That the polish has worn off, that neither her voice nor her hands are smooth anymore. Far more than that, what has contributed to his growing disinterest is that she has begun to be predictable. She's begun to use her powers with no regard for anyone but herself, and he's been tired of that for millennia. Neither devotion nor obsession have ever been enough to earn his favour or so much as his attention, and yet - and yet there's those moments. Moments when her brilliance still shines, moments when she's truly unpredictable in her destruction.
For those, he will humor her.
And so he appears, a blur of black she likely cannot see, but that makes no matter. She knows his voice, better than anyone alive, and he reaches out to accept her offering.]
You did well even then, despite the trembling hands.
no subject
Too long ago, that is her measure of time for too many things now. Too long since the days of silk, no, no, no more such skin or fabrics or voice at all. Rough it is all now, like the weather. Like the way her beloved treats her. Every day she sets the altar, a dutiful wife's calling from his shrine; and so rarely does he answer her call.
Morsel or feast, it makes no matter what she offers. Too long ago, since he last came to dine, and at the end of the day only her birds sing their songs of gratitude.
It does not behoove a lady of her station to pine, and yet... ]
Will you show me more?
[ And yet the sound of her voice betrays the agonizing hopes of a much younger girl. ]
no subject
Her question makes him smile, which is not a pretty thing by any means, though she cannot see. For all her magic, and despite her body bound by it to always recover again, she is not immune to the decay that beckons all mortal things. Not merely in body, either. The Void is far too immense for any human mind to stand, and yet she keeps reaching for it like a moth returning to the candleflame. It grinds her mind down to splinters, slowly but surely, and still she does not falter. Unrelenting in what she wants, even if it destroys everything else around her. (Herself too. Just in ways she doesn't care to acknowledge.)
Does she accept this as a consequence, or does she not care? Or is she even aware of it anymore?
The rune vanishes between their hands. He lets her old and calloused ones fall upon his own instead, which are cold and always just a little bit damp, but otherwise hands just like a human's. He runs his thumb over her knuckles, the gesture imitated from someone else's intimacy that he does not share the sentiment of. ]
My dear, faithful Vera. What would you like to know?
[ And he stands before her, even though his feet have no visible ground to brace themselves against. Now he is not so tall, not imposing in figure, but they both know she knows better. Knows far more of what he is than most. Yes, he will give her more of his gifts, like he will give those who are drowning more rocks to break their bodies on. Of course.
And she will be beautifully terrifying. ]