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Post by The Forgotten God on Jul 8, 2020 2:38:08 GMT
It begins as it always begins after both moons are full. No matter the thickness of the wool blanket or the warmth of the body laying entwined with your own the chills start, first in your toes that touched the cold floors for so many years, then up to the spine that lay on the narrow cot, waiting for the bath of the month from the ogreish orderly who never seemed to change outfits or brush his teeth. Finally it reaches your head, to the mop of black hair uncut and untamed like a stallion’s mane on some distant grassland.
When you open your eyes you relive again the stay that shall never truly end. Your thin shift is no defense against the winds from the sea just as a girl’s mind is no defense against the ministrations of the warden of Lockhart Asylum. Welcome back, Miss De Vair. We’ve been hoping you’d come.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Jul 8, 2020 2:57:33 GMT
The weirdest part of the dream is that she has her weapons. Justine de Vair, master duelist, has dream swords, and as they have for the last eight years, they still do nothing. Even the sharpest steel and swiftest arm cannot cut open the secrets of the mind itself.
“It’s been a long time,” Armand said, entering her spartan cell, looking with his arrogant smirk at the chamber pot that hadn’t been emptied in four days. Even in a dream the smell comes through, how it cling to the walls. In her less lucid moments she had debated briefly using the materials within as fingerprint, but a de Vair never fell that far, not even in the most feared building in all Innuria. Armies of monsters had broken themselves on the walls of Bastion. Legions of same men and women and children had broken their minds here. “A new group of friends to lead to slaughter. I’m ashamed,” he admitted sadly. Always sad, even in his arrogance. No one feigned tragic like Armand Andronica. “Whatever would your mother think? If, of course, that was still within her capability.”
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Post by Justine-Juliette de Vair on Jul 8, 2020 3:35:57 GMT
She never really smelled the pot before, not even when it had been overflowing with her own piss and shit, at least not when she was really there and it had been a constant. No, that was a later addition, when she had been reminded what it was like to be normal. Not that Justine would ever really get to be normal again.
Unfolding herself from the rickety wooden cot, Justine tried to meet his eyes. She couldn’t, not even now. The little cot was pushed into a corner and she curled up there as if the two walls of stone could protect her the way nothing else ever had. Her limbs always seemed too long in the miserable osnaburg regulation shift. She wasn’t sure anymore if that was how it had really been or just how her mind painted it to set the stage for nightmares. She always knew she was dreaming...unless her not-unhappy life on the outside was the dream. That was the real nightmare; waking up from anywhere, even shivering cold in a bedroll under a pine tree in late autumn when she and Demetri couldn’t afford an inn, and being back at Lockhart for real.
“I don’t belong here,” Justine heard herself saying, though if it was more to Armand or herself she was not quite sure. “You can’t hurt me, not anymore.” She always said the same thing, even though it only made him prove her dreadfully wrong.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Jul 8, 2020 4:24:43 GMT
Armand has the decency or patina of it to look hurt. “Hurt you my dear? Perish the thought! You came to us a very naughty puppy, one who would stick her nose where it didn’t belong. Madness is a sickness of the soul, not the mind, my dear. We can treat a mind,” he continued, finger trailing the sharp edge of her useless sword, oh-so-steadily approaching her despite...she had to notice, blood? He had never bled before, not in eight years and seven months. One hundred and three dreams, and it had never happened. And yet even Armand seemed surprised if only for a moment as he came to her hand gripping the sword. “I wasn’t like this when you came,” he said in his sad voice, “I had hopes, dreams, a desire to help.” He hugged her. “Then I discovered that we can only cut out the infection,” he whispered into her ear, “not replace the damaged bits.”
He took her hand after releasing her from the hug. “Now then my dear, you have begged us since childhood for a friend. It has been mine and my fathers’ greatest sin, leaving a girl alone in this world, with a traitor father and a mother whose best days are long gone.” She felt cold at the next part, the part she could never fully remember awake. Why could she feel it now? Why was it so real? “We are going to find you a companion, Justine. One who will never leave you, never be too distracted to talk, never be consumed with a traitor’s heart. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?” For the first time in months his voice had lifted to something approaching genuine affection. She would kill Armand one day, but in this one moment she could believe he had meant well. Or had lied to himself so well that he would never be able to tell the difference, at least.
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Post by Justine-Juliette de Vair on Jul 8, 2020 11:31:19 GMT
Justine wasn’t sure which unnerved her more: his voice, all kind words wrapped in the cloth of malevolence, or his embrace, as gentle and innocent as a parent’s. She had always wanted to trust him in the early days, even when her mother in the next cell had stopped screaming her vitriol, even when her mother never spoke again. Sometimes she thought he belonged in one of the cells himself with all his methods and cures and cuts and shocks. Sometimes she felt vengeful, but her swords were always like the pretty toys she and her brother had played with as children, polished and gleaming and ultimately useless. And so she watched the blood well up from the narrow cut on his fingertip, the blood that she would ultimately find on her meagre clothing as he wrapped his arms around her, on her hands as he wrapped them in his...but dreamlaw was confusing and illusive: there was no blood on her.
“I wanted my mother, but you cut her and broke her mind. I read to my reflection in the glass, just to hear my words reflected back, and you took the mirror and the book too.” She focused her eyes on him finally, even as she lost the edge she had gained in the past eight years. She heard her voice come out and it was at once quieter and higher in pitch. “What will you do to help? There are the others in the common room...” Demetri, she thought, who was really the only one who had managed to convince her of his sanity for longer than a fortnight. When her mouth opened again it was not just the barely-remembered voice of her childhood but also weirdly hopeful. She could remember no hope at Lockhart. She recalled there had been a moment when she thought he meant he would give her a child, with all the petting of her hair and her hands. A baby to raise in this monstrous place...conceived in pain and horror not dissimilar to the other treatments he had issued. Something convinced her he was in earnest.
“A friend? Could I really have someone here?” Her eyes left his face and looked about the room, picturing a second cot and, of all things, a cracked porcelain vase with a pair of wilted and bruised flowers on the high barred window that barely cast any light into the cell. One of the flowers straightened and bloomed before her eyes and then it was all gone with the typical transient nature of dreamstuff. “That is my dearest dream, doctor. Please make it come true.”
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Post by The Forgotten God on Jul 8, 2020 14:49:38 GMT
“We shall, my dear...we shall,” be assured her. He handed her a package. He hadn’t been holding one when he entered...right, this had already happened. Another way perhaps, but it was done and settled these dozen years ago. Whether he had had it back then or whether an orderly had brought it in was something she would never remember, likely, much like remembering the socks one had worn the day of their first sexual adventure. What she had worn the day she met her sister would never leave her mind. Armand had left then, she thought, but this one froze, his purpose not fulfilled and so her sleeping brain unwilling to allow itself to remove him in case it forgot to bring him back.
When she had dressed they went downstairs. Was that what they had done? Hadn’t they gone to the tower? But now it was all down, down, down, deep into the basements of the asylum, where tourists or inspectors were never shown. SHE saw to that. Justine has never once heard her name mentioned, but the short woman with the hair dyed leaf green had a powerful series of spells that stopped inmates from leaving. Today though, Green-tress seemed happy, much like her old cat had prior to pouncing on a mouse. “Today you shall meet a very special visitor,” Green-tress said in her harsh yet high pitched voice. “You must be on your best behavior?” Had this happened? She had gone up the tower and seen her sister for the first time. Hadn’t she?
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Post by Justine-Juliette de Vair on Jul 8, 2020 15:22:40 GMT
She accepted the package greedily and opened it. She didn’t remember what had been inside. Some things were clear as day and others were so murky.
Either way, she was out of the cell then. Her hair was as brushed as it ever got, tied back from her face with that bit of red ribbon from the nice orderly...the one who had given her the Thornheart book. Her face and hands had been scrubbed with a coarsely woven rag and a bit of soap until her cheeks were pink and stinging. She had on a proper dress, even. It wasn’t nice or pretty or anything truly presentable, but the faded indigo wool was a welcome addition. She felt a mix of excitement and curiosity and dread, as heavy and wrong in her stomach as the perpetual stew ladled out every evening.
“I’ll be good, I promise. Where is she?” She heard her voice but didn’t feel her lips move.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Jul 8, 2020 22:31:52 GMT
Green-Tress giggled and made a couple motions with her hands and a staircase materialized before her, leading down, down, down. “That way my dear,” she cackled. Go meet her.” She turned to Armand. “If the girl is unworthy SHE will be displeased. You’ve failed her twice now Armand. Your brother’s please won’t save you this time.” Her captor/doctor seemed fearful for once.
“Of course Vesta. I’m well aware of what the paladin demands. Miss de Vair is a perfect match for our lady’s needs, I assure you.”
The green haired woman frowned. “It’s your balls, not mine,” she concluded dismissively. She handed Justine a blade that had appeared from nowhere. “You’ll need this dearie. Now go downstairs.”
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Post by Justine-Juliette de Vair on Jul 8, 2020 22:42:35 GMT
Green-Tress giggled and made a couple motions with her hands and a staircase materialized before her, leading down, down, down. “That way my dear,” she cackled. Go meet her.” She turned to Armand. “If the girl is unworthy SHE will be displeased. You’ve failed her twice now Armand. Your brother’s please won’t save you this time.” Her captor/doctor seemed fearful for once. “Of course Vesta. I’m well aware of what the paladin demands. Miss de Vair is a perfect match for our lady’s needs, I assure you.” The green haired woman frowned. “It’s your balls, not mine,” she concluded dismissively. She handed Justine a blade that had appeared from nowhere. “You’ll need this dearie. Now go downstairs.” She wasn’t sure if the staircase had really appeared like that or if it was part of the dream, just as they had gone down into the depths of the asylum instead of up as she more consciously recalled. Her hand gripped the blade as comfortably as she would handle her swords. She turned it this way and that, seeing her face in the polished surface. It had been so long since she last saw her face, and yet she looked just how she remembered: plain and pale, dark-eyed and dark-haired, hollow-cheeked and bruised. She looked up at them, hearing them talk as if she had no ears. “Who is the lady? Why do I need the knife?” |
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Post by The Forgotten God on Jul 8, 2020 22:52:44 GMT
Green-tress smiled a shark smile. “The sword is for keeping safe my dear. Prove your mettle. The lady is the one who keeps us all safe, who watches over us as we sleep, who holds back the darkness. She will give you what you seek, my dear. Everything you’ve asked for these years gone by.”
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Post by Justine-Juliette de Vair on Jul 8, 2020 23:07:51 GMT
Justine frowned and cocked her head to the side. This lady had never kept her safe before, not that she could recall. The answers told her nothing, and so she turned, almost as though the room were rotating around her, and began down the staircase.
So she went, one hand flat against the dank stone wall for balance and the other tight on the knife handle which flickered from knife to sword to scalpel as she descended. Once it was a pen with sharpened steel nib. She couldn’t imagine that a useful weapon, but it changed to a sword again quickly enough.
She focused her attention forward and kept going.
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Post by The Forgotten God on Jul 8, 2020 23:16:00 GMT
The stairs seemed to go forever, and ever and ever and ever, until the temperature seemed like it was rising from the molten core of the very earth itself. When at last she reached the bottom she saw a gorgeous woman in red and orange and black silk sitting on an onyx throne. Her green eyes shone like a cat’s through the dim light, speaking of, where was the light even coming from?...but she looked kind rather than hard or condescending, her black hair bound up in rubies and diamonds. She looked like a queen, perhaps a sovereign of some undiscovered underworld.
Her perfect red lips parted to speak. “You’re Justine de Vair, then?” She asked. Her voice was like honey drizzled over thunder, strong and sweet and everything the girl needed to hear for once in her life. “That dog Armand assures me that you’re a good girl. He hasn’t touched you, has he?” He voice held the steel of a threat, but Justine instinctively understood the threat was not against her. This queen would never hurt her.
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Post by Justine-Juliette de Vair on Jul 9, 2020 1:06:22 GMT
Justine couldn't help but curtsy low to the woman. She had never seen anyone as radiant as The Lady before, not even her mother in her finest clothes with her most expensive jewels at the very peak of her youth could ever match the woman who sat the throne before her. The woman was everything Green-Tresses had described and more. This was a goddess Justine could believe in and worship.
When she spoke, her voice came out quiet and wavering. "I am, my lady. J-Justine de Vair." She felt self-conscious in her worn, borrowed dress and with her dark hair a mass of tangles. She was not good enough to be seen by the beautiful woman before her. Even so, Justine's voice solidified and grew stronger. The confidence of now filled it and replaced the fear of her past. "He hasn't, no. And I try my best to be good. I swear. Who are you, my lady? Please may I know your name?"
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Post by The Forgotten God on Jul 9, 2020 1:25:42 GMT
“I don’t need good, my dear,” the Queen said as she rose sinuously from her throne. She strode over to the girl with an imperious walk. “I need devotion. Do you know the difference, Miss de Vair?” She frowned at her clothing and walked behind her like a drill sergeant inspecting a new recruit. “This is unacceptable. You are not swine, are you?” She clicked her teeth. “Well,” she said, walking to the side of the room and drawing a blade. “I’ve heard your family have been duelists for centuries. I do so hope you inherited some portion of their...potential.”
The lovely woman in the silk dress spends no more time on idle talk before the blade thrusts at her, faster than Justine has ever seen anyone move before. Somehow her blade is up in time to parry it. “First survivor,” the woman said with approval. “Drop your sword and kneel Miss de Vair. Your sworn devotion will be...acceptable.”
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Post by Justine-Juliette de Vair on Jul 9, 2020 1:42:53 GMT
The next few moments were over quickly. She didn’t know how she had done it, but she had. Her head swim as though she were drunk. She remembered the first time she had gotten drunk, after they had escaped the Asylum, and how sick she had been. This was more important and yet she would probably forget much more quickly.
Justine knelt, dropping to her knees on the hard flagstone floor with no worry of pain. She stared up at the lady and let go of the sword. It became a pen again for a moment, and then resumed it’s true shape. “I Was told you would protect me. I will swear, my lady. Please...your name?” She raised a hand to the woman in supplication.
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