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 Posted: Sun Aug 23, 2015 10:18 pm
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Posted: Sun Aug 23, 2015 10:19 pm
'This way' had eventually led the two of them back towards the growing murmur of wigglers, a very real contrast against the impending nature of the swamp that surrounded them. The innocent weakness of the young, unknowing brood felt like a world away, something he personally hadn't experienced in so many sweeps. The thought that these defenseless creatures were relying on them for survival was a strange one every time he remembered it. With a small sigh, one kept mostly to himself, he shook his head. They were almost there.
He'd kept an eye on Muerte without really keeping an eye on him, just to ensure the doctor didn't wander off in the wrong direction again or fall too far behind. It was clear to Aprife that without his glasses, he was in a pretty poor position. It was almost difficult at times to keep his patience about him with the shear number of times he'd been forced to slow down when all he wanted to do was get back to the mother grub. Deep breaths, Invasi. It wouldn't do to get belligerent.
And yet, the closer they got, the more he could feel the stress figuratively leaking out through his fingertips. He was tired, they both were, tired and beaten and sore not just from this, but everything they'd been through. It took too much energy, being so uptight. The annoyance he felt had been largely based in not knowing... not knowing whether the wagon would still be sloshing along though the swamp when they found it. There it was, though, same as it had been. Maybe some night he'd find it in himself to trust more fully in his fellow Initiative members and their abilities.
Some night, but not tonight, he thought. Ah but, the night was still young.
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Posted: Mon Aug 24, 2015 2:06 am
This way was a route of shame and embarrassment. Muerte hadn't spoken since the incident with the drone, and his eyes hadn't left the ground. Something very bitter and resentful was building in his throat. What small amount of satisfaction and camaraderie that had formed between them felt so strained now as the greenblood took sinking steps into the mud. He couldn't make out the shapes of his feet—not very easily—instead having to focus on the quick blurry movement there.
Still, as the silence grew on between them, Muerte felt... not calm, but not nearly as agitated. It was a hard emotion to put a finger down on. He felt tired. Sore. Defeated.
It made it hard to be completely vehement, even though his anger was fairly obvious when how he huffed every time he stumbled over a stray root or rock. He was cold, clothing still damp. He felt empty, vision still blurred. The greenblood let the tiniest yawn drawl out from his throat, quiet and soft and barely there. His eyes started to drift again...
It wasn't the first time he had started to lag behind, though he somehow managed to catch back up with Aprife each time. He liked to think it was just his own being capable of handling himself, but in the pit of his stomach he knew it... probably wasn't really the case. He was useless when he was like this, and the realization weighed heavily on him. Despite the cold he almost felt sort of sleep-warm almost, forcing his legs to cooperate, making his feet pick themselves up and step back down. His movements were stiff now, almost mechanical.
His eyes shot open as he lurched forward, barely catching himself as he hissed in an attempt to shake his foot free from some foliage growing in the swamp. He was trying not to make too much of a scene because he just knew that a*****e was looking down on him, but sometimes he couldn't help his bubbling frustration.
His footsteps were uneven as he wobbled quickly after companion. He was being a little too noisy. He had stopped caring a while ago.
Despite it all, Aprife himself was relatively quiet. He hadn't said much, not since this way; in fact he hadn't said anything. Suddenly this seemed remarkably like when they first ventured out in here, walking side by side in the relative stillness. Things were different now, the atmosphere had changed, but in the same breath... not. It made no sense that the other troll wouldn't be even slightly peeved with him, though he had to wonder why he even cared in the first place.
Ah, well, he knew. Muerte didn't consider himself sensitive, not normally, but now... he felt so completely vulnerable that it made him feel sick. If Aprife wasn't here... well, s**t, he probably would have just gotten lost in the ******** swamp and died there. His lip curled, and he brought a hand to rub the sleep from the corner of his eye.
He hated his eyes. It was so easy to overlook his imperfections when they weren't immediately obvious. His glasses were such a staple in his life that... well, it was easy to see just how dependent on them he was. He hated it. He hated his stupid ******** glasses and his stupid ******** broken eyes. This would be the last time, last time. He was going to fix them. He wasn't going to deal with this bullshit again.
But, well... as it stood, he couldn't really help it in the moment, no matter how much it bothered him.
"Invasi..." his voice was uncharacteristically quiet, uncharacteristically subdued. He didn't say anything else past that, and honestly he wasn't sure what he was going to in the first place. Muerte was prideful. He couldn't ask for help, definitely wouldn't ask for help, but he needed help and it was awful. Maddening.
"I can hear them. We've gotten closer, haven't we." it was a drab, almost miserable sounding in how bland and void of feeling it was. He never used to care if he held any value to someone other than himself, and yet feeling so incompetent left him feeling worthless.
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Posted: Tue Aug 25, 2015 6:08 pm
"Hm?" The acknowledgement of his name sounded just a tad automatic, his thoughts temporarily shuffled elsewhere, though he did turn his head. Not enough to look back, just enough to show he'd caught it and was waiting for whatever Muerte might have to say. What it might be was hard to judge, quite honestly, but that wasn't a surprise. Internal back-and-forthing had proven a constant where the greenblood was concerned and Aprife was sure he could count on one hand how many times he'd been able to properly read him without re-evaluation later.
It was certainly a double-edged sword. On one hand, it irked him. Whenever he knew he'd judged Muerte right, or felt he was beginning to pick up on a thing or two, in the next moment he would pull something starkly unexpected. Parts of him Aprife felt like he could understand. Others were still a goddamn puzzle with missing pieces.
On the other hand, he felt strangely on his toes around the greenblood, though not necessarily in an uncomfortable way. Though his longwinded snark could certainly be obnoxious, Aprife felt a vague kinship in their shared sharpness. He never felt particularly bored, at least.
Regardless, he didn't expect one type of interaction over another at this point. It was obvious each time Muerte blindly stumbled—what amounted to a significant number of times—that he certainly wasn't in a good mood. Aprife hadn't exactly been supportive, but that wasn't his style, and bringing it up wouldn't change anything, he decided. It was better not to wear at his companion's already fragile pride.
Ah but, when he finally spoke again, Aprife noted rather quickly how empty it sounded, how tired and beaten down. There would be no arguments or strife, it seemed, and the yellowblood was fine with that. It made things easier. And, well, he honestly didn't want to argue with Muerte at this point, for his own reasons.
"We have," he stated shortly, but not unkindly as he stopped. Now he looked at his companion fully. He planned on letting it pass them by, heading up the rear would ensure they didn't unintentionally slow the pace of the group. Only when it was by did he move to walk again.
"You don't want to take a break on the wagon, do you?"
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Posted: Wed Aug 26, 2015 1:08 am
"Of course I ******** don't." Muerte barked back, his voice scratchy with exhaustion as he—well would you look at that—stumble over his own feet again. He could scream from the frustration, but he ******** wouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't let anyone or anything have that satisfaction, wouldn't give Aprife anything else to look down on him for. It didn't matter if the yellowblood's tone was genuine. Muerte took it as an absolute insult.
And it made him so ******** angry because he knew, he ******** knew... that he was right. Aprife was right. Even just thinking the fact, let alone accepting it, made him burn. It felt like a hot iron pressing into his head, marring his skin, scarring his flesh. Every imperfection itched. His eyes stung, his lip twitched, chest felt singed. He hated all of it. He hated being reminded of it. He hated being reminded of his hatred. He was supposed to be a paragon, not a pariah.
He stood there stiffly as the wagon passed them by, all the talk from the exhausted rebels nothing but static. Maybe he should just walk into a marsh and never crawl back out. That would do everyone wonders, wouldn't it? Except for the fact that the mere thought sent Muerte into chills. Death, death, death. He would be there sooner than later. His imperfections would lead him into an early grave. He felt sick, absolutely sick.
Disgusted as he heard Aprife walking again, the only sound contrasting the growing distance of the caravan. He remained planted, wondering if anyone would actually wait, not wanting to care of the outcome to that thought. He picked at the scar on his lip, skin only saved by the fact his hand was gloved and not at the mercy of his nails.
It was, however, at the mercy of his teeth, and he couldn't help digging one of his protruding fangs against the flesh there, chewing, angry. His feet were willed forward again as he was temporarily placated, stumbling over small obsticals as he finally caught back up to Aprife again—he didn't seem to be that far, actually, but he might have been projecting. It was silent again, except now Muerte's mouth tasted metallic.
His fingers twitched, thrumming against his arm as he struggled to find a spot to put his hands. He wasn't usually so fidgety, typically had it together, but this obviously wasn't one of those times. Everything about him was jerky, unsure, tense. He wasn't just stumbling from his lack of perception, it was from his nerves too, he had to keep it together, soon they would be out of this swamp, so they would—
For all the times Muerte had lost his balance thus far, it had never been enough to fall completely over. Still, he felt himself falling, and his arm shot out for safety, roughly hooking in the thick sleeve of the yellowbloods sweater as he caught himself. He was fine, this was fine, he was fine.
"It's dark," he immediately hissed, trying to catch Aprife before he could say something or worse mock him. Had it been anyone else, he probably would have just gone off like he usually does. His face burned with shame.
But his trembling hand never left from the sleeve.
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Posted: Thu Aug 27, 2015 9:02 am
"Suit yourself."
Of course. The biting tone hardly held the vehemence he'd come to expect when Muerte was upset and that made him take pause. The weakened, tired voice, the yawning from earlier, everything was a tiny reminder of just how finite and undeniably mortal they all were. No matter how great the greenblood thought himself, no matter how skilled Aprife thought himself in return, there was always a chance tonight would be the night it all came to an end.
For a brief moment his thoughts shifted to Zeffer, out on the front lines, risking himself to divert attention away so they could escape. It was obvious from their encounter with the drone earlier that danger lurked around every single corner, not just at the forefront, but he couldn't help the small pang of worry regardless.
It sickened him that despite that inner fear, he also began to remember the anger. He'd been glad that they'd taken separate paths. Though Aprife prided himself on working past differences where the situation required it, he just wasn't sure he was ready to be the bigger man about it, not about this.
These thoughts were hypocritical, he knew that, but he hardly cared. Aprife would lie, backstab, whatever it took in most cases to get ahead, and he knew all too well how eager and willing some were to do the same in return. Never once, though, did he believe he'd be dealing with this kind of emotional betrayal from Zeffer of all trolls. It hurt more than he'd ever want to admit out loud.
s**t. Forget it, stop thinking about it. The palms of his hands were cut with small half-moons where he'd begun digging his nails in.
Hastily wiping the smears of yellow on his pants, he glanced back at Muerte, willing his thought somewhere, anywhere else. That was when he saw he wasn't moving. Now they were both stopped, hesitating in a void, and there was so little understanding between them. A vast distance. Aprife wondered vaguely when he'd starting really noticing the little things that made Muerte different from so many others he'd met and wondered why they felt at all significant.
Then time started again, he noted the fresh splash of green at his lip, he thought only an instant later that perhaps they had more things in common, after all. The palms of his hands pulsed. He wouldn't mention it.
More silence grew between them as they both began to walk again. Aprife caught his thoughts drifting all over the place. Some moments he thought of Zeffer, others of Muerte, occasionally about Byakko or even the other members of the Initiative. All the while he fought between upset and too tired to care. Now that there was time to calm down again, he could feel the cold sting of his swamp-soaked injuries. How nice it would be to rest, but it felt like they had so, so much further to go.
When he heard the exaggerated splash of yet another stumble, Aprife didn't even flinch. It was something he was already growing used to and he thought, at least, that Muerte's pride alone would keep him going. But maybe not...
The tug at his sleeve made him jolt in surprise, arm halfway to wrenching out of the greenblood's grasp. It was only the quickly shot excuse that made him stop, alerted to an accident and not an assault.
"It..." Yeah, it was dark, but he knew that wasn't the only reason for the stumble. This wasn't the first time. "... yeah."
His arm relaxed, his posture followed. Even when Muerte neglected to let go, Aprife didn't try to pull away. Pride was a powerful motivator for avoiding help. The doctor wouldn't outwardly ask for it, he was sure. This was a close as it would get.
A short stint of continued silence and an internal debate later... Aprife thought he might be going just an inch too far with this one, but in the moment it felt like the thing to do. It burned to reach up with his bad arm, but pulling out of Muerte's grasp wasn't an option, so he went with what he had, fiddling with a horn ring until it began to slide open, losing its grip on his horn.
The thin, almost fragile looking relic felt familiar in his hand as he glanced it over. Shaking fingers—ah, they had something else in common, it seemed—slid over the surface of the smooth, yellow, translucent tube until it began to glow.
He said nothing as he reached around, holding the loop out in offering, its faint glow casting shadows against his arm.
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Posted: Fri Sep 04, 2015 8:42 pm
It was a piss-poor excuse, Muerte knew. He knew too that Aprife knew and knowing that just made it all the more worse. Still, the mockery never came. No words left Aprife's mouth save for the awkward agreement. Of course it was dark. It was obvious from the start that Muerte's ineptitude came from being borderline blind, not from the shroud that every troll was expected to navigate.
He was grateful for the silence, though it did little to stave his shame. Muerte was accustomed to distance. His upbringing solidified that. It was safest in his own head with his own plan and his own way of doing things. Of course, making connections was useful, but at the end of the day still unnecessary. There was always a wall present that barred him from getting too close, and never once did Muerte think to cross it. Tonight was no exception.
It would be a lie, however, to say that Aprife didn't know him more than most. There was Zeffer of course, and while he found it easy to mock his audacious behavior he knew the blueblood was at least perceptive enough to pick up on things. They spent a decent amount of time interacting, but it had been strictly business (on Muerte's end, anyway). Being with the yellowblood should honestly be no different—and theoretically it wasn't—but Zeffer never saw his weaknesses, never saw him battered and injured and reduced to a fragment of his usual composure. Aprife had not once—but twice been privy to such a show. Muerte hated it.
And yet it somehow made it easier too, despite the humiliation. The lack of conversation had been a silent gift, and Muerte couldn't help but feel some sort of tentative understanding, as bizarre as it was. Eventually his hand began to still, his posture began to droop once more, his stumbling not ceasing (not all together) but definitely more managed. He let the tiniest of yawns drawl its way out.
Of course it was the momentary stupor that threw him off, but even more was the dull light that intruded into his line of vision. He meant to speak—say something—refuse—but he found himself... captivated almost by the softness of the glow. He made the connection somewhere in the back of his mind that the object was (obviously) Aprife's, so the next question came up as why.
It was hard to parse, more so impossible to decipher thanks to the oddity of the situation. Muerte could understand goals and motivations. One thing he couldn't quite grasp was empathy. Here was something that should be free of ulterior incentive, but it didn't keep his mind from slowly picking through every possible what-if. There was no reason for Aprife to do this. It wasn't as if the object produced enough light to guide him through this maze and line out his obstacles. It was pointless. He had no idea what was being offered to him and why.
Yet it was so calming.
Muerte didn't say anything as he carefully reached out to take the ring, his blurry eyesight trying to make out the tiny inscriptions there. It made no difference; all he could see was the dim yellow as it illuminated his face. He thought for a second time to speak—say something—question—but instead he held his tongue, letting the only sounds speak from their shoes in the murk. His eyes were no longer fixed on his shoes, but rather the the glow.
He wasn't sure how much silence had passed between then and now, but Muerte was sure it was a decent length of time. It didn't bother him; he scarcely even recalled the shame he felt then, everything focused on the gentle sensation of smoothing his thumb over the frail looking artifact as exhaustion lulled him. His tongue felt like led in his mouth, exhaustion and soreness keeping him from rambling, but he found his voice creaky and ragged and hoarse, "Why... this?"
He gave the ring a gentle shake when the light threatened to die out completely, relaxing as it lit up again.
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Posted: Sun Sep 06, 2015 10:06 pm
Speaking of piss-poor excuses, Aprife would have little room to talk when the instinctual reaction to why ended up quite simply I don't know. Remembering how much he'd mentally berated Zeffer for that very same answer made his stomach clench uncomfortably. Like the blueblood, though, it was a truthful reaction. Given no chance to think, he couldn't place just why he'd done it, and that certainly only irked him more. This constant questioning of his own self-perceptions was unbelievably tiring.
There was a reason, of course there was. Falling back on the old staple, luring Muerte into the rebellion, didn't quite work, though. Not anymore. The greenblood had found his place, at least he'd made it here of his own accord. Through the encounters with not only Errade, but also Kursha and the drone they'd just taken down, he'd stayed. Whether he meant to leave later or not, it was hard to believe there was anything else Aprife could do to sway him from here. At least, not in this moment.
Their interactions should've ended some time ago, he should've moved on to focusing on someone else, shaping and molding a new recruit with some different skills of note to further his goals. Instead, he found himself drawn to Muerte. Without realizing it, he'd spent more time among the doctor's company than anyone else's recently. And well, he'd enjoyed himself... As much as one could truly cherish time spent fighting for one's life. The thought almost made him smile, but not quite.
A tentative understanding, that felt about as right as it felt strange at the very same time.
Strange, truly. As irked as he felt only moments before, so much of the irritation had already drained away. Slogging through the swamp was still exhausting, dealing with his aching injuries still a pain, but he was undeniably calm. Though he chose not to look back at Muerte, he mulled over what he'd felt earlier. They really did have more in common than he'd immediately realized. He had his answer.
"Well..." There was a short moment of hesitation. This was the second time since the Initiative's regrouping that he'd opened up about himself to Muerte, or at least considered it. That alone was surprising, but even more so, it was hard to believe he didn't feel anymore hesitation than this. In fact, when he spoke again, it was rather unhindered.
"I guess you could say I see a bit of myself in you." A vague kinship, he supposed. There hadn't been anything ulterior about his motives this time. For once, he simply wanted to ease Muerte's tension for the sake of easing it and not much else. "It felt like the thing to do."
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Posted: Sat Sep 12, 2015 7:27 pm
It felt like the thing to do.
Muerte didn't have a response to that, at least not an immediate one. The words floating around in his head, quietly dinging around the corridors of his mind in tandem with his splashing footsteps. He didn't speak for a while after that. All his questions were silently transmitting to the artificial light in his hand, and yet no answer ever responded back to him. There were tendrils in the corners of his vision, remarkably clear given blurry state of his vision. They were long, twisting and black, filling his head with static. His body felt empty, though not particularly hallow. The shadows willed away for the moment, mind cleared.
What was he supposed to say? Should he say anything? He didn't know how to read him at all. When he had first met Aprife, it was hardly ideal. Hell, he had taken the yellowblood for a corpse when he saw Zeffer sobbing in the doorway. How did it turn into this? What was he doing with his life? More importantly, why was he still here (His wasted time, Errade,̢ ̛K̨ùrsh̨a͠,͘ b͟e҉traya̡l͞s͟)? It wasn't as if he held any particular loyalties to the cause, nor to the members associated with it (ŕ͡i̢g̨h҉̀t͢?̧͝). Why ally himself with a bunch of cantankerous idiots? The only place he saw this going was an early grave, every last one of them. They were all doomed from the start, and Muerte was doomed standing alongside them.
Except he hadn't left, and well...
His gaze slide to the corner of his eyes, falling on Aprife (or at least, the blurry apparition of him). His thoughts were quietly whirring again, cogs ticking and he swore he could hear them. What did Aprife even know about him? Where did he get off saying he saw himself in the doctor? Muerte bit his lip again, only to stop when he realized how sore it was from already doing the action earlier. Did they even have any similarities? At a surface level, he saw them as opposites if anything. When he tried to go any deeper than that... there... there wasn't anything there, was there? He didn't know the yellowblood worth a damn, and in turn found Aprife's comment quite contrary. He failed to recognize their supposed kinship. What the hell did Aprife see that he didn't?
And why the hell did it make his head hurt and his chest hurt? Christ Muerte didn't understand emotion; he never cared to and this was why. It was too complicated; somehow even more so than the science and medicine that he devoted himself to. It was like when he was younger, when he wasn't quite like this, when Eranza—
Eranza.
...when he was younger, and his lusus was still autonomous. Before everything was science and medicine and complicated. He lived quite fearlessly now (d͞id͏͢ ͞͏h̵e̵̡?); the only thing Muerte feared was death itself, but back then... it was so much broader. It was fearing failure above all else. It was something physically innate to almost every living thing, in some way shape or form. At his core, he was still probably—no, he was— fearful of it, and he hated it. Fearing death was instinctively primordial; it all was. He realized living in the forest was convenient, yes, but also to an extent necessary. He couldn't deal with pressure and he—Eranza—he recognized that, sought it out, tried to make him better—
Ended up mutilated in the bottom of a basement. Ended up another nightmare to add to the list that Muerte had already accumulated. Eranza was a perfect example of what happened to individuals that tried to care. Eranza was mindless screams that haunted him during the day, kept him up, pushed him further into his obsessions with science, made him seek that comfort from things that couldn't judge him. His ******** up didn't exist, not normally, not unless he allowed his mind to wander.
And then there was Aprife "it felt like the thing to do" Invasi. If there was only thing he had picked up from Aprife, it was his decided fakeness. It was the permanent grin he always wore even when he wasn't ******** thrilled to begin with. It was all the bullshit that he wasn't wearing right now, bled to the ground from his crushed veneer, rotting in the soil with Muerte's holier-than-thou facade. It came back to I see myself in you. None of it made any goddamn sense.
"Why" He quietly asked, words slipping through the failing quality control barrier in his head, "How..."
Muerte shook his head, fingers grasping tightly around the glowing ring as he formulated his words better. "I... don't believe I understand..." a pause, a breath, "What even makes you say that?"
And it was uncharacteristic how quiet he sounded, voice soft and almost timid. "What the hell got into you?" what the hell happened to him?.
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Posted: Sat Sep 19, 2015 4:42 pm
Silence had been a long-standing companion, traveling ever among them since they'd rejoined the caravan, the one that somehow felt further and further away whenever he bothered to look ahead. It wasn't a surprise, nor was it particularly bothersome when they lapsed into it once again. Aprife couldn't deny the underlying curiosity at the edge of his thoughts, though, the lingering question left behind after he'd given Muerte his answer. Just what did the greenblood think?
Hard telling when there was simply nothing said. Was he satisfied or perhaps displeased? Aprife didn't dare look behind him, something told him finding the doctor's face would give him little closure. The gentle weight that remained against his sleeve might have been more of an indication than anything.
Or maybe he simply had to wait a few moments longer and nothing more.
Why? How? Questions Aprife had honestly expected. From the outside, his observations likely seemed arbitrary, presumptuous. They didn't feel that way to him, at least not in the moment when his mind was weighted with thoughts of fatigue, hunger, doubt, but he supposed being expected to explain wasn't exactly unwarranted. The questions themselves weren't surprising, no, but the way Muerte’s voice formed them, almost as if he were grasping at understanding something that had truly and utterly baffled him, that made Aprife take pause.
Why did he sound so timid, so unsure? Of course the yellowblood couldn't know what had gone on in his head, the details of his past, the indefiniteness of his future, their future... Still, had he truly started him so much with such a simple response? Had connecting them with words alone really put such a stress on the atmosphere between them?
Then he realized, when Muerte opened his mouth again, that uncertainty was as powerful as gravity. What the hell got into you? He felt that uncertainty suddenly, as well.
It wasn't as if Aprife expected the doctor not to notice. The lack of his usual smile, the slip of his mask, the openness he usually didn't offer, all of these things were strange and still felt strange even now as they sloshed along together through the swamp. Aprife thought he'd managed to reach some comfort despite that, but having it brought so poignantly to his attention had him rethinking things all together.
"What's gotten into me?" he asked, buying himself only seconds of time with reiteration. Even at this point he wasn't looking back at Muerte. "What hasn't? You've been here. Everything that's happened... I'm tired, that's all. What I said... it was just a simple observation. Take it how you will." Ah, he was backpedaling.
But was it really all? No. That was the real truth, no. There was Zeffer, too, his matesprit—could he even be called that anymore, did he want to call him that?—and the argument between them. Well, Aprife couldn't even claim it was an argument, the blueblood had made few moves to repel his anger. It was his own one-sided rage bubbling over at the thought of being betrayed by the one he trusted the most.
With everything that had happened, exhausted or not, Aprife should have shut down. What was he hoping to accomplish, making himself even more vulnerable than he'd felt when he and Zeffer had parted ways earlier? The thought that he was reaching out for some form of comfort or consolation, some kind of connection, was near-sickening. It was dangerous. Where Aprife should have shut down, he instead hung wide open. And Muerte... Muerte was one of the last trolls he should've shared his defenselessness with. Right? In that instant, he felt conflicted.
Biting his lip, he dropped his gaze to the murky waters of the swamp. It wouldn't give him any answers, just as the horn ring had no response to offer Muerte.
"Nothing else happened. Nothing. Don't worry about it." Would he worry about it anyway? Strangely enough, both possible answers were, in that moment, undeniably frightening.
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Posted: Tue Sep 22, 2015 10:12 pm
"Take it how you will."
Ah, well. How exactly was Muerte to take this? It was hard to believe—nearly inconceivable—that there was nothing more to the story. And yet, did Muerte want there to be anything more to it? Did he want there to be some deep hidden reserve? Well... no, quite frankly not. He wanted to be satisfied with this answer. He should be satisfied with this answer. Why wasn't he? What was gnawing at his stomach? The greenblood called himself a doctor for a plethora of reasons, so what was this one ailment that he couldn't identify? Was it an ailment at all? Could he call this a sickness? Probably.
Yet he still bore into Aprife's answer. He didn't really want to know the truth. In fact, there was probably no truth past this at all. Even if there was, it wasn't his business, never would be, never would want it to be his. He had a mountain of problems to solve on his own. The last thing he needed was to be—his stomach rolled at the thought—concerned with another individual.
But make no mistake, concern was but a filler. He couldn't come up with the right word; but concern seemed to fit... and not. Something still seemed displaced. He didn't care about the why and the how and the when to whatever the hell was plaguing the yellowblood, and yet his slightly-off... no, very off disposition struck something in him. It was different, obviously. Muerte studied change and recorded change and yet he didn't like this change... why? Why though? He couldn't place a word to the feeling, couldn't conjure a reason for it. Every part of the moment was completely lost on him.
Frustrating, that was at least a word he could agree on, even if he was more frustrated with himself rather than the troll walking along side him. Not having any sort of reasoning to place his feelings too absolutely bothered him.
Maybe that was part of it. Maybe? Did emotion need a point from which to be born from? Did it need a reason in the first place? Was having a path necessary—a conduit—from which to be borne, cast forward. Was it not all random? Sure, there were many thoughts and feelings that Muerte could point to a cause, but was it not true that some had a seeming mind of their own? The mind was not purely ruled by the conscious; these sort of things, Muerte began to realize, came from something deeper, darker, further away from the surface, shrouded so deep in the psyche and unconscious that one could never really find a probable cause for their actions or origins. It still baffled the greenblood. Even if there was something subvert dancing behind his waking mind, he wanted to know it, needed to know it.
"Don't worry about it." worry worry worry worry.
"I don't want to worry."
Something in his voice almost cracked, be it from exhaustion or his own emotional exasperation or maybe both. He didn't ******** know anymore.
"I don't want to worry!"
And then there was something pleading there, something recognizable on the brink of Muerte's mind, the word he'd maybe been looking for. It lingered there on the tip of his tongue, wavering between tell me and stay back. The fact that he felt even slighty this was, was—
—was alarming. His hand had left the hem of Aprife's sleeve very suddenly then, feet stopping too for what felt like the umpteenth time that night. The arm had fallen limply back to his side, his gaze focused entirely on the ring now. His eyes strained under the luminous glow of the object. Muerte looked lost. What little solace he found in the object was quickly replaced with something more muddled and complex. He was scared. His knuckles were clenched tight. His hand was shaking.
"I don't understand." He was almost frantic with how he sounded, how apparent it was that his mind was racing for answers. No amount of study or analytic introspection could give him the solution he was searching for.
"I don't care, I—" Ah, now it sounded like he was the one backpedaling, "I don't quite— I just—why are you pissing me off?"
And yet it didn't sound like a jab, and there was very little malice in it. The trademark indignation so usual to the doctor was absent. No, it was a legitimate question. This damn ring had no answers, the damn bog had no answers, he had no answers, and he sure ******** doubted Aprife of all trolls had any sort of answers either. He didn't care and he didn't know why it felt like Aprife did. He didn't know why he was even considering those thoughts. He didn't want to be considering these thoughts. What Muerte was dealing with right now, what this inner turmoil was, it was his. He was the one that would have to parse out each tiny bit, make sense of every little line, understand his own little storm.
But he couldn't, and that was truly frightening.
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Posted: Sun Sep 27, 2015 9:25 pm
If there was one thing Aprife hated, disregarding the many things he quite honestly did, it was regret. Before he could wrestle his mouth shut, he'd said much more than he meant to, obvious things, blatantly and without thinking. It made him sound weak, it made him sound like he was hiding something. In all honesty, he was, but that didn't mean he wanted Muerte to know, that didn't mean he wanted to throw away his carefully crafted mask like he hadn't spent sweeps perfecting it. But maybe, for once, the crack was just too significant to hold together.
Even if he didn't want Muerte to know, that wasn't the whole truth. A part of him did want the doctor to know, so that maybe he'd see those similarities he claimed he couldn't, so that maybe Aprife wouldn't feel so decidedly alone. The yellowblood liked to think himself independent, but he'd come to rely on the very few close relationships he had, the ones it had taken him so much to open up to completely. To think he might wind up with no one to fall back on was frightening, even if he wanted to believe he wouldn't, couldn't fall that far. And yet, here he was.
For a moment it felt like Muerte wouldn't respond, and maybe he could pull himself back together, maybe they could both go as far as to forget anything had been said. Things wouldn't be awkward, Aprife wouldn't have to deal. Exhaustion would be the only thing holding them back.
"I don't want to worry."
Or not.
"I don't want to worry!"
Weight fell away from his sleeve and he stopped walking. The telltale sound of the other's walking ceased, too. Aprife knew then they were delving deeper into things that were better left for a moment when they weren't running for their lives through an unforgiving swamp. It seemed, however, that the greenblood didn't quite get that. The way his near-frantic voice cut through the silence around them made his chest tighten.
It must've been hard, failing to understand yourself. He found himself laughing, a tiny, barely there sound. He'd already dealt with that multiple times since they'd begun this journey, questioning what he'd come to know about himself, but not near to this extent. For what he did question, he understood Muerte's frustration. There again, a connection he felt with the greenblood.
He'd been dancing around this subject since they started talking. Hell, even since they fought the drone. In truth, the yellowblood most certainly had a better grasp on feeling than his companion did, on relationships and emotion. When his bloodpusher continued to thud uncomfortably, when his stomach did flips at the desperation that practically radiated off Muerte, he knew he couldn't keep denying or playing ignorant in the face of confrontation.
"I do care," he responded, sounding somewhat sure as he finally turned around to face him. But Aprife didn't normally care about others the way he cared about himself. These feelings were rare and they still felt strange. When had they even begun to sprout? Without realizing it, he'd begun to care a little too much.
"Maybe you do care, too." Aprife was looking at Muerte even though it was difficult and even though Muerte was still looking at the ring. "Maybe I'm pissing you off because I won't answer your questions even though you do care." A short pause. If there was any test of faith it was this, revealing something fresh and raw, something he really didn't want to talk about. "If I said I'd tell you what happened, would you listen?"
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Posted: Tue Sep 29, 2015 12:10 pm
Maybe you do care.
The very idea was borderline preposterous, if not completely. Muerte didn't care about trolls. The only things Muerte cared about were his passions, his interests. He cared about his science, his medicine, his practice. If he were to extend the branch to something breathing, it would be his birds. He cared about his flaws—his eyesight, his feebleness—and he cared about his strengths too—his mind, his cleverness. As he continued to dwell on it, he realized he only cared about facets of himself, not himself as a being. That was strange, wasn't it? He was, of course, very realistically obsessed with preserving his life, as all living things were. Could that be accounted for, then? But his thoughts and emotions— his own very real thoughts and emotions... could he say he cared about those? He did when they got in the way, in times like now.
He realized he only cared about things that lacked the capacity to care about him back.
Honestly, empathy and sympathy served only to be distractions. This wasn't to say there wasn't any strength in bonds, though he used the term loosely. Teamwork, sure. There could be something said about attaining things in a group that couldn't be done alone. But these things were, and always would be, strictly business to the greenblood. It was easier that way for everyone involved. Emotions made decisions in place of logic—very rash decisions, very bad ones—it was better to keep those things under lock and key, shut away. It was better not to focus on ones own emotions, and it sure as hell was better not to focus on others.
But then there was this goddamn yellowblood, talking and speaking like he knew him. No one knew Muerte.
Muerte didn't know Muerte.
And Muerte was fine with that, or at least he should have been. Wasn't he? It always worked well for him. It had up until now anyway. Up until Aprife. He wasn't strong like him, not in verse of emotion. He couldn't lift his eyes from the ring. He couldn't bring himself to tear away from the small amount of faith that had been so gingerly pressed into his hands. Did he care? He couldn't, not when he didn't know what care was.
But then why was he mad? His thoughts made a full circle. Maybe he could understand, maybe one night he would have his epiphany, his moment of realization. Tonight just wouldn't be that night. He was too haggard, confused, overwhelmed. He couldn't draw any conclusions, come to any answers, not unless he was to accept the one Aprife gave to him. Did he? He didn't know.
And suddenly all at once, there was another new feeling, one Muerte again couldn't place. It left him feeling hollow, almost numb—no, not hollow, because a part of him felt a little sick too. It wasn't anger, he knew that one well, understood that and frustration and even fear far better... funny how he found himself above other trolls, found himself putting them down like they were intellectually inferior, and yet he was the one that could only understand basic primordial feelings. His other hand clutched at the ring too, both of them gripped on a little too tightly. His chest felt tight and his breathing felt constricted almost, parts of him felt tense. He was upset.
"M-Maybe you're— but... I don't..." He spoke without thinking, words as jumbled as his thinkpan felt, ruing how ruled he felt by the emotions he so badly wanted to dismiss. He took a very long, deep, deliberate breath. He could listen, sure he could, but did he want to listen? Of course his first thought was that he didn't... if he did, it was more from not knowing, not from caring. Aprife was just acting weird and it was confusing for Muerte.
His mind did something even stranger then; what about Aprife? He was only looking at the yellowblood with surface level intentions. What went deeper? Muerte halted the train of thought for a moment; did he want to go there? Perhaps he did... it was a very tentative trail. Aprife... was he just as confused, maybe? Did he appreciate the spot he had ended up in, here with Muerte? He said he cared... but did he want to? What if he didn't?
I guess you could say I see a bit of myself in you.
Even though he denied it before, Muerte felt like he was on the brink of realizing something very deep and profound. It was obvious by the way his expression wavered, eyes widened in surprise— shock— back to confusion. Aprife never struck him as the type to really give a damn about anyone else; maybe that was why Muerte found himself in his company so much. Maybe, just maybe, that actually made him feel safe. He only cared about things that couldn't care back, right? Hadn't Aprife been that, at least at first? Things kept snapping into place, disjointed but fixed. He was someone smart, someone who wouldn't necessarily probe about feelings, someone that he could share in with.
Someone almost alike.
And they had their differences of course, very vast ones, but maybe Aprife really was right. Maybe he was right about this. It was stupid, inane, but maybe he could trust him.
Muerte conceding was, perhaps, just as much a show of faith as Aprife's hesitant offer. His gaze, though heavy, rose to look at Aprife, or at least the figure of him, standing there staring back. "I... would."
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Posted: Tue Sep 29, 2015 7:50 pm
It was a bold assumption and Aprife knew it. There was an edge of danger in it, too. Not any sort of physical risk, not really, but instead it held the possibility of pushing too far, just a bit too hard, and shutting Muerte down altogether. Honestly, the yellowblood couldn't say he'd be completely against that. This wasn't the first time during this 'adventure' that he'd realized it probably wasn't the time for parsing through emotions or dealing with unfortunately dramatic relationships. Even so, there was a part of him that wanted to keep going, that hoped the greenblood wouldn't literally give up on him.
There sure were a lot of parts of him that wanted things tonight. It was a bit overwhelming.
Almost as overwhelming as the heavy atmosphere that hung around them. The discomfort that radiated off of Muerte was as palpable as the damp and obvious weight of his soaked clothes. It was apparent in the way his eyes lingered on the horn ring and no where else, the way he tripped over his thoughts when he finally attempted to speak... Aprife held himself in place with sweeps of training in necessary restraint, even if he wanted for a brief moment to reach out, even though he was certain any physical comfort would be anything but comforting. The urge was there regardless, rooted in Aprife's naturally touchy (if not outright invasive) nature. All he could do instead was stare.
While Muerte struggled with his thoughts, Aprife found himself unable to look anywhere but those hands, the ring. As far away as it was, it felt like the glow it cast was reflecting in his eyes. It was hardly a distraction from the way his stomach still clenched and his muscles still tingled with an uncomfortable sensation of impending dread, but it was something. Fixated as they were, his eyes nearly missed the doctor's movement, subtle, until they were truly face-to-face, eye-to-hazy-eye.
Listening was such a simple concept. One could easily listen, but not quite feel, not quite care. Aprife hardly expected Muerte to accept, however, to offer to listen, even on a surface level. Yet, here he was, offering his pains for display and likewise finding Muerte agreeing to it. It caught him off guard. He hesitated.
"... You would?" he finally questioned, though it wouldn't need an answer. That had already been provided. "Well..." He knew he'd be speaking now more than he had since they'd taken down the drone, since long before that honestly. The story was a short one, but his path to expressing it was long.
"Zeffer is what's gotten into me" That was as good a starting point as any. There was a nagging worry at the back of his mind that recalling yet more betrayal was a gamble, but it was overwritten by the growing awareness that his interactions with Muerte, on his part, were no longer solely about strategical advantage. "Before we left for the swamp, I found out he has feelings, red feelings, for someone else. To what extent, I don't know exactly, but..."
Aprife didn't quite expect his companion to completely understand the nature of that kind of emotional betrayal, not really, especially as subtle and fledgeling as it was. Still, as unsettled as he was only moments before about revealing it, he felt a strange relief in getting it off his chest.
"It's put me off. It's got me thinking about things I don't want to think about. There's no time for things like this. You can understand that much, can't you?" It wasn't meant to be accusatory. "But... I'm only mortal, Muerte. I've got my weaknesses and this just might be one. It's, well... it's almost-" a small laugh "-frightening."
Crossing his arms, Aprife cast his gaze away for the first time since he'd started to speak. The dark, dreary swamp, the slowly disappearing sounds of the caravan they'd been following... He felt almost detached from it all in that moment, but he knew it wouldn't last.
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Posted: Wed Sep 30, 2015 12:41 am
Honestly, it was true. Muerte could listen and listen and listen; while he wasn't necessarily one for talking, it didn't mean he was one for listening either. Still, no matter what sort of brink he was on, whatever edge of empathy he was almost borderline overcoming... it was still merely absorbing what was being said to him. There was no real sympathy, no real comfort the greenblood could offer. Not that Muerte would even be the type to offer such condolences, but seeing the yellowblood so raw was very much jarring, not like the Aprife he knew, and yet still... similar in some veins... Muerte couldn't place it.
But the fact remained that he couldn't relate to it either. Zeffer? He was both surprised and... not. Had it been any other time, had it been in the past, Muerte probably would have scoffed it off. Of course it would be Zeffer! he'd think to say, he's an enormous moron! and it was true still, and while Muerte was still very much capable of being so pretentious, he felt almost no drive to do so, not with Aprife. It seemed more exhausting than it did anything. His head and tilted to one side in wonder, but he was silent.
Maybe he was just tired. Maybe that's why he wasn't immediately berating Aprife for being upset over something that he would deem trivial. Even if the source had been rooted in Zeffer, the fact remained that this was still relationships. If Muerte didn't have time for emotions and surface level bonds, he sure as ******** didn't have time for something that much more deep and probing. Quadrants were certainly not something that occupied much of Muerte's time. Their meaning and influence in fact was almost entirely lost on him. Those sort of things required very fundamental elements that Muerte himself would never be able to provide, and in fact trusting someone that much or caring for someone that much or even hating someone that much seemed like an invaluable waste of time. For all the similarities he had begun to recognize in the last few moments, they all seemed far away and lost now. Aprife was this off because of some relationship drama? His thinkpan spun a little.
Wait, wasn't that supposed to be normal?
He blinked.
The lack of movement made the glow from the ring dull. He didn't understand. He'd been unable to understand this entire damn night. He couldn't understand Aprife, and being presented with what he was... he was losing the ability to understand himself. It was mind boggling. Frightening. Here they were running for their lives, and somehow it didn't seem near as frightening as the turmoil churning inside his chest. What was up with that?
"You can understand that much, can't you?"
Accusatory or not, Muerte almost flinched, almost. His eyes left Aprife's, and he found himself looking at the downtrodden loam of Alternia. He could, yeah. This wasn't the time or the place to delve into these things, but would there ever be? Probably not, not for someone like Aprife, someone who had to act like an Officer, live up to his own standards as well as the ones everyone else subconsciously put on him. He wasn't allowed something like weakness, even though he was here admitting it. Muerte held himself accountable to be strong too; at least, none of his weakness needed to come from emotional adversity. He chewed on his lip again, ignoring how tender it felt from before, the pain dull and barely there. It was nothing compared to the numbness that radiated in his body.
"I..." Muerte grappled with his words again, sighing, "...you're right, I'm sorry."
Oh.
Well that was unusual. An apology from himself? His teeth awkwardly chewed into his skin again. Why was he worried, like he pried too hard? Aprife had offered hadn't he? No, it wasn't a question of that. He... was slowing them down. Muerte became very aware of the fading sounds of the caravan. <********> why the hell had he stopped? His boot sloshed against the muddy ground anxiously. Here he was getting inwardly uppity with Aprife for letting emotions get to him when he couldn't even handle his own. It all made him feel weird and vulnerable. Was that what Aprife was feeling too? He shook his head, now's not the time.
He hesitantly made small steps forward again. Having Aprife in front of him as a guide made walking easier. It felt like he'd taken a couple steps back, literally and figuratively. He flicked his wrist a few times, the ring coming back to life. Muerte was mortal too, that was becoming ever apparent by how his body weighed and ached. The only solace he found in his pain was that it proved he was still alive. Even then, it was feeble at best.
"I understand." he echoed again. It was true to an extent. He understood the gravity of the situation, knew their place. Did he understand why Aprife was upset? No. Did he understand this weakness? Not at all. He could comprehend betrayal, but not like this. Betrayal was what Errade did, what Kursha did. He... supposed infidelity was a form of betrayal too, but for Muerte, it was his fault for putting that faith in someone anyway.
Of course, was he not putting faith in Muerte right now? Was he not giving him a small dose of faith in return? But it wasn't like Aprife could do anything to betray him, right? Whatever he had with Zeffer was too deep for him to understand. Hell, he never could understand why Aprife put up with a lunatic like that blueblood anyway. This sort of clash was a ticking time bomb, probably.
"We should keep moving," His voice was a little dull, a little urgent, a little quiet. He stopped his sluggish shuffle when he drew close to the yellowblood, exhausted eyes glancing up at him again before glancing back away. He offered the ring up, "You can... have this back, Invasi..." it was a pathetic attempt at trying to return back to that strict business mindset—honestly probably too late for it (and honestly didn't want to)—but Muerte had nothing else to offer. His words could bring no comfort, no advice. Maybe complacency would help, even if it only relieved a little bit of stress. He wouldn't act out so stupidly again, stop them when they had places to go, things to keep up with. He was already slowing them down enough as it was.
Whether he cared to admit to them or not, Muerte has his fair share of weaknesses too. Hell, as his resolve was staring to crack and splinter, he came dangerously close to realizing that he might mostly be flaws. How pathetic.
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