[ luther had said: but you're not on your own anymore.
luther, who is probably dead too. it doesn't matter that this is a different timeline; there's no comfort in that. this makes two versions of reality, now, where his siblings don't survive the apocalypse.
the destruction that vanya, somehow, causes.
it's not that he'd forgotten that fact, so much as it'd briefly slipped out of his mind amidst all the bad news. too much to hold onto all at once, water slipping through his fingers. he reaches into his blazer pocket until he pulls out a a round object -- a glass eye, point of fact -- and finds he can't even stand to look at it. 45 years of hope hanging on this thing, all for nothing.
he flings it, hears it crunch satisfyingly against a tree trunk. ]
Pointless. [ the eye; his entire life. ] Everything was pointless.
⦑ war does this to grown man: it breaks them, like water against rock, or so some say, but she knows better: it is water against a dam, and when the dam breaks, much and more can be lost. his war is different than her own, for all the ways their stories converge, yet some things do not change.
and what, she thinks, is the point of Seeing, if one does not try, and try, and try again to bring change? god made her an instrument, but perhaps here, she can choose her own uses now and again. ⦒
No life is pointless. ⦑ even sinners and slavers and unbelievers have their uses. in this case, she steps over, finds the eye in the darkness, and picks it up. she doubts he'll take it back, not now. but perhaps in time. ⦒ And even from ash, miracles can be wrought. Who is to say your siblings did not live, somehow`Who is to say your sacrifice won't aid them in shaping a new world, after the old one is gone?
[ melisandre believes in her god of fire, of light. she speaks bright words of hope now, but five's eyes are snow-blind. there's no such thing as hope, when it comes to the apocalypse.
there was, it turns out, never any hope at all. ]
Do you know why I survived the apocalypse the first time? A fluke. An accident. I jumped forward in time to after it'd happened -- just after it'd happened, probably. But I thought, if I got home -- no matter what it cost, and it cost -- I could stop it.
[ he throws his hands up, drops them. ]
But I was wrong. I was wrong. My brother saw the world end. [my sister did it. ] If he's here, they're dead. And everything I did was for nothing.
[ he survived in the wasteland, for nothing. he became an assassin, the handler's perfect tool, and murdered and tortured his way through history, for nothing. he survived that jump to the future for nothing. outlived everything, everyone, he had ever loved, for nothing. if he hadn't been so determined, at thirteen, to prove their dad wrong and prove he can time travel, he would've at least died alongside his siblings trying to save the world. might've actually had the opportunity to grow up into a half-decent person, in the meantime. ]
⦑ he should be angry, she thinks. it is human, to be angry, to feel powerless, to feel betrayed by fate itself. how many times had she felt this way? thousands. it gets easier, but the cost is high, and the very fact that he cares, that he fights, that he aches and hisses and and wrings his hands with the pain of it –– no way of telling how precious it is.
it is not hope she speaks with, but the certain knowledge of a further endgame, one that plays not over years, or decades, but centuries. ⦒
You were wrong. ⦑ there is no need to lie in his face, she respects him too much for such a cheap insult. ⦒ But to be wrong is not the same as to amount to nothing. Who is to say this place won't ever offer a chance at a return?
⦑ it is not death, at least, it is not what any of them seems to have pictured. ⦒
You did the very best you could. With everything you did, every second of it, no matter how terrible, you did the best you could. You will continue to do so. And it will pay. ⦑ eventually, it will pay. ⦒
But now you must think past your pain. Think of your brother. Think of all the others - myself included – who care for you here. And swear you won't do anything rash.
[ five just looks at her for a long moment, as though disbelieving, and then has to turn away, take a few steps. runs his hands through his hair at the back of his head, then lets them drop. exhales, feels and sounds like a trapped thing.
(you can't change what's to come, five.)
because working alone, living alone, also means there's no accountability to anyone. he hasn't had to worry about how his actions affect others, that anything happening to him could upset anyone else in a long, long time.
without turning around, lowly, ]
If I killed the Lighthouse Keeper, it could all be over.
[ it: being here, the tests and tortures of beacon, the resets and the ferry. he's falling back on what he knows, the only thing he ever seems to have succeeded at. the handler kept saying he belonged with the commission; and he was the best of them, after all, so maybe she was right. if you're only good for one thing, maybe there's no point trying to be anything else.
(you were always a killer. i just pointed you in a direction.) ]
⦑ it is good he turned – this way, he won't see which selfish thought jerks through her first. no, this is the one consensus. no, for the hall of light might only be a sweet lie told by r'hllor to ease the bitter pain of living. or, more selfish still, no, because after this, there might be nothing at all, only darkness.
the one she can least admit to is far simpler still: no, never has life been less lonely, more human, and to let go now is too soon, too unthinkable, there has been no time to prepare.
she stands still instead, hands folded in front of her, as ever. ⦒
Winters. ⦑ she presses on, having found a thought that might talk reason into him. ⦒ He said it is not the Keeper's fault, nor is the keeper in control. You might spark something else entirely.
[ it's selfishness too, to want to do this. melisandre speaks logic, truths, so that's one thing. such an act might not fix or change anything -- or could make things worse. ]
I don't care.
[ but he sounds tired, not angry. he died trying to stop the apocalypse, and that's acceptable. except -- he's still living, one way or another, with unfinished business and the sting of potential failure.
not once in 45 years did he ever stop to think about any kind of after -- life after succeeding or failing to stop the apocalypse. living with the result, good or bad. so: if he tried something rash, and something happened to him now...he wouldn't care. ]
And it is just fine not to care. It hurts to care.
⦑ the tiredness is a soreness so familiar she associates it with life just as much as breathing, as a heartbeat. to fight destiny, fate, every single day, is a feat which links them, and she does not view is fight as any less than her own, in spite of hers having lasted longer.
she steps forward, setting the basket down, and seating herself on the forest floor. she'll be there, if he wishes to do the same. ⦒
This is why you must, occasionally, allow others to do the caring for you.
[ melisandre, as she always does, offers kindness. warmth, despite her shadowy homelands, compassion and understanding. she has an unfathomably high opinion of him, which he'll probably never understand.
sometimes, he allows himself to bask in the light she gives off, just a little. today, he can't bear it.
so without turning back to look at her, he teleports away.
(but he keeps the promise he didn't make: he doesn't seek out the lighthouse.) ]
⦑ she lingers for a while, in the light of her lantern, waiting to see if he returns. when he doesn't, she'll leave eventually –– but the basket of food stays behind, just in case.
rest doesn't come easy that night, not with the way she keeps wandering to the window to see if anything, anything at all, has changed about the lighthouse in the darkness. but all is quiet, as quiet as it can be.
more than once that night, she prays for him, prays warmth and comfort can find him, prays he stays safe, prays his unknown brother can reach him before the darkness forced upon him tears him down.⦒
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luther, who is probably dead too. it doesn't matter that this is a different timeline; there's no comfort in that. this makes two versions of reality, now, where his siblings don't survive the apocalypse.
the destruction that vanya, somehow, causes.
it's not that he'd forgotten that fact, so much as it'd briefly slipped out of his mind amidst all the bad news. too much to hold onto all at once, water slipping through his fingers. he reaches into his blazer pocket until he pulls out a a round object -- a glass eye, point of fact -- and finds he can't even stand to look at it. 45 years of hope hanging on this thing, all for nothing.
he flings it, hears it crunch satisfyingly against a tree trunk. ]
Pointless. [ the eye; his entire life. ] Everything was pointless.
no subject
and what, she thinks, is the point of Seeing, if one does not try, and try, and try again to bring change? god made her an instrument, but perhaps here, she can choose her own uses now and again. ⦒
No life is pointless. ⦑ even sinners and slavers and unbelievers have their uses. in this case, she steps over, finds the eye in the darkness, and picks it up. she doubts he'll take it back, not now. but perhaps in time. ⦒ And even from ash, miracles can be wrought. Who is to say your siblings did not live, somehow`Who is to say your sacrifice won't aid them in shaping a new world, after the old one is gone?
no subject
there was, it turns out, never any hope at all. ]
Do you know why I survived the apocalypse the first time? A fluke. An accident. I jumped forward in time to after it'd happened -- just after it'd happened, probably. But I thought, if I got home -- no matter what it cost, and it cost -- I could stop it.
[ he throws his hands up, drops them. ]
But I was wrong. I was wrong. My brother saw the world end. [ my sister did it. ] If he's here, they're dead. And everything I did was for nothing.
[ he survived in the wasteland, for nothing. he became an assassin, the handler's perfect tool, and murdered and tortured his way through history, for nothing. he survived that jump to the future for nothing. outlived everything, everyone, he had ever loved, for nothing. if he hadn't been so determined, at thirteen, to prove their dad wrong and prove he can time travel, he would've at least died alongside his siblings trying to save the world. might've actually had the opportunity to grow up into a half-decent person, in the meantime. ]
no subject
it is not hope she speaks with, but the certain knowledge of a further endgame, one that plays not over years, or decades, but centuries. ⦒
You were wrong. ⦑ there is no need to lie in his face, she respects him too much for such a cheap insult. ⦒ But to be wrong is not the same as to amount to nothing. Who is to say this place won't ever offer a chance at a return?
⦑ it is not death, at least, it is not what any of them seems to have pictured. ⦒
You did the very best you could. With everything you did, every second of it, no matter how terrible, you did the best you could. You will continue to do so. And it will pay. ⦑ eventually, it will pay. ⦒
But now you must think past your pain. Think of your brother. Think of all the others - myself included – who care for you here. And swear you won't do anything rash.
no subject
(you can't change what's to come, five.)
because working alone, living alone, also means there's no accountability to anyone. he hasn't had to worry about how his actions affect others, that anything happening to him could upset anyone else in a long, long time.
without turning around, lowly, ]
If I killed the Lighthouse Keeper, it could all be over.
[ it: being here, the tests and tortures of beacon, the resets and the ferry. he's falling back on what he knows, the only thing he ever seems to have succeeded at. the handler kept saying he belonged with the commission; and he was the best of them, after all, so maybe she was right. if you're only good for one thing, maybe there's no point trying to be anything else.
(you were always a killer. i just pointed you in a direction.) ]
no subject
the one she can least admit to is far simpler still: no, never has life been less lonely, more human, and to let go now is too soon, too unthinkable, there has been no time to prepare.
she stands still instead, hands folded in front of her, as ever. ⦒
Winters. ⦑ she presses on, having found a thought that might talk reason into him. ⦒ He said it is not the Keeper's fault, nor is the keeper in control. You might spark something else entirely.
no subject
I don't care.
[ but he sounds tired, not angry. he died trying to stop the apocalypse, and that's acceptable. except -- he's still living, one way or another, with unfinished business and the sting of potential failure.
not once in 45 years did he ever stop to think about any kind of after -- life after succeeding or failing to stop the apocalypse. living with the result, good or bad. so: if he tried something rash, and something happened to him now...he wouldn't care. ]
no subject
⦑ the tiredness is a soreness so familiar she associates it with life just as much as breathing, as a heartbeat. to fight destiny, fate, every single day, is a feat which links them, and she does not view is fight as any less than her own, in spite of hers having lasted longer.
she steps forward, setting the basket down, and seating herself on the forest floor. she'll be there, if he wishes to do the same. ⦒
This is why you must, occasionally, allow others to do the caring for you.
no subject
sometimes, he allows himself to bask in the light she gives off, just a little. today, he can't bear it.
so without turning back to look at her, he teleports away.
(but he keeps the promise he didn't make: he doesn't seek out the lighthouse.) ]
no subject
rest doesn't come easy that night, not with the way she keeps wandering to the window to see if anything, anything at all, has changed about the lighthouse in the darkness. but all is quiet, as quiet as it can be.
more than once that night, she prays for him, prays warmth and comfort can find him, prays he stays safe, prays his unknown brother can reach him before the darkness forced upon him tears him down.⦒