03-04-2020, 12:40 AM
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BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS
THERE'S SOMETHING TRAGIC ABOUT YOU, SOMETHING SO MAGIC ABOUT YOU
Sometimes, life felt circular: he'd find himself drifting across random plains, traversing across foreign territories, and think for a moment — just a moment — that his wanderings from Eden had never ended. The landscapes would blur together, melt and warp, and it was all too easy to think that everything in between then and now had been smoke and mirrors. In his worst moments, he could convince himself that it had been; that there had been no Ascendants, no redemption, no Margaery and Suite and Hazel. That he was waking from a dream so real he'd lost track of himself once more, had disappeared into the void for days.
And then he would turn his head, look away from the endless fields, and see Hazel's flashing eyes or catch an echo of her vanilla-honey-cinnamon scent or feel her reaching for him through the bond, and reality would set in again. Eden was gone, and so were the Ascendants, but it had all happened. And they hadn't left their home behind in smoke and crumbled ruins, this time; they hadn't left alone. They'd left together, found their memories together, were traveling together — and that was the difference from then. That was what set it apart.
Bastille wasn't sure who had suggested that they drift back towards their old home. A whispered notion, exchanged in the middle of the night as they camped outside the shattered remains of Eden. It was cathartic, visiting; why not return to the Starpool, the tree? They had more ghosts to lay to rest, more memories to let go of before they moved on again. It was a joke at first, something to entertain when they grew bored in one place or another, but somehow Bast found himself standing in the once-familiar fields, looking out over flowers and flowers and more flowers.
He hadn't really missed it, personally.
He might argue that there wasn't much to miss, really; he'd taken Hazel and the coven with him, carried Margy and Suite's memories with him, and had few happy memories locked away in the Observatory. Perhaps he should reflect fondly on Hazel's wrath, Rad's pills, or Starry's death? Swaths of weeks that were merely indistinct hazes in his recollection, too muddled by substance to remember? Ungodly stress and swarms of members he half-liked? No, thank you. He was content to let mostly everything about the Ascendants lie.
But still — he was drawn to the Starpool, itching with the silent desire to see the hanging pendants, and he was forced to admit that perhaps there were still those he missed and those he wanted to say goodbye to properly. Just maybe, he hadn't hated everything.
He was surprised to find one of the few things — individuals — that he didn't hate waiting for him beneath the ancient trees, body stooped and nearly foreign with time but her aura still bright and easily identifiable. For a second Bastille just stopped, blinking once (he never could be too sure that Pollie's vision wasn't infecting his own), before he let out a snort of disbelief. Of course it would be Rin here, somehow barring him from being his most destructive self when she had no conceivable right to still be serving such a role.
His gaze flickered, skittering up along her wall of names and names and names, and his head tilted slightly. His own pendant still hung heavily from his necklace, clinking against his French coin as he ambled lazily closer, and he noted with some amusement that Rin had managed to record some names that he knew he should know but didn't. Dedicated, that one. She always had been, hadn't she?
[b]"Why, Rin, I didn't realize you cared so much," he commented idly from behind her, evidently not in the least bit concerned about giving her a proper introduction or much explanation for his presence. It was hard to tell if he was even really there, living or not: he still looked widely the same as always, but there was just something faintly indistinct about him, something timeless. Or, more acutely, deathless. Not quite a ghost, not quite living. Evidently still not possessing much class. "I would have thought you'd have tried to scrub me from your memories. I'm touched, really."
And then he would turn his head, look away from the endless fields, and see Hazel's flashing eyes or catch an echo of her vanilla-honey-cinnamon scent or feel her reaching for him through the bond, and reality would set in again. Eden was gone, and so were the Ascendants, but it had all happened. And they hadn't left their home behind in smoke and crumbled ruins, this time; they hadn't left alone. They'd left together, found their memories together, were traveling together — and that was the difference from then. That was what set it apart.
Bastille wasn't sure who had suggested that they drift back towards their old home. A whispered notion, exchanged in the middle of the night as they camped outside the shattered remains of Eden. It was cathartic, visiting; why not return to the Starpool, the tree? They had more ghosts to lay to rest, more memories to let go of before they moved on again. It was a joke at first, something to entertain when they grew bored in one place or another, but somehow Bast found himself standing in the once-familiar fields, looking out over flowers and flowers and more flowers.
He hadn't really missed it, personally.
He might argue that there wasn't much to miss, really; he'd taken Hazel and the coven with him, carried Margy and Suite's memories with him, and had few happy memories locked away in the Observatory. Perhaps he should reflect fondly on Hazel's wrath, Rad's pills, or Starry's death? Swaths of weeks that were merely indistinct hazes in his recollection, too muddled by substance to remember? Ungodly stress and swarms of members he half-liked? No, thank you. He was content to let mostly everything about the Ascendants lie.
But still — he was drawn to the Starpool, itching with the silent desire to see the hanging pendants, and he was forced to admit that perhaps there were still those he missed and those he wanted to say goodbye to properly. Just maybe, he hadn't hated everything.
He was surprised to find one of the few things — individuals — that he didn't hate waiting for him beneath the ancient trees, body stooped and nearly foreign with time but her aura still bright and easily identifiable. For a second Bastille just stopped, blinking once (he never could be too sure that Pollie's vision wasn't infecting his own), before he let out a snort of disbelief. Of course it would be Rin here, somehow barring him from being his most destructive self when she had no conceivable right to still be serving such a role.
His gaze flickered, skittering up along her wall of names and names and names, and his head tilted slightly. His own pendant still hung heavily from his necklace, clinking against his French coin as he ambled lazily closer, and he noted with some amusement that Rin had managed to record some names that he knew he should know but didn't. Dedicated, that one. She always had been, hadn't she?
[b]"Why, Rin, I didn't realize you cared so much," he commented idly from behind her, evidently not in the least bit concerned about giving her a proper introduction or much explanation for his presence. It was hard to tell if he was even really there, living or not: he still looked widely the same as always, but there was just something faintly indistinct about him, something timeless. Or, more acutely, deathless. Not quite a ghost, not quite living. Evidently still not possessing much class. "I would have thought you'd have tried to scrub me from your memories. I'm touched, really."
[b]THERE'S SOMETHING BROKEN ABOUT THIS, I MIGHT BE HOPING ABOUT THIS
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]