He's fine! He's-- He's in the pod, everyone else is there, you're clearly having a moment, and I think I'm fucking allowed to be worried about you as well! Shit, Harrow!
I've never asked or pryed because if you don't want to say anything, then you don't fucking have to, but don't use it like a damned greatsword against me!
[She's just lying on the ground. And when he mentions a greatsword, she'll start looking around. Oh, thank god - a little friend followed her in here, carrying the sword. She takes a deep breath and says, in a much calmer and more tired voice - ]
[She also sits there quietly for a moment. Because - she's still distraught, and angry, and doesn't understand why he won't listen. But it also destroys her a little, that he thinks his response disappointed her in some way.]
Have I really not - I had thought it was obvious. [The way she's clung to him this past week. She thought it was so blatant, so pathetic, her desperation for continued comfort so childish. And he hadn't even realized.]
All I could do is say and do the wrong thing. But you won't.
[Her dumb lip is quivering again, but she's just tired now. Too tired to even embarrass herself with a third cry.]
I would have told you what you wanted to know, had you asked, but there are parts for which I don't have the words. I am not - skilled in that. I have never had to be, because I have never wanted to be. I have guarded all of the secrets of my House, and I suppose I would have guarded them until the day I die if this place hadn't leaked them senselessly.
But I have never learned how to say - was it as dreadful for you as it was for me?
[what do these nine eyes of mine see? sorry, you have been perceived.]
I'm going to be honest with you, and I promise I won't make a habit of the truth, but your little boney exterior act doesn't have a single one of us fooled.
[She doesn't say this defensively, just evenly. It sounds like something she actually means.]
Or if anything, the act has been - this part. I have tried to behave in a manner that is unnatural to me, because I was told it could help me achieve my goals. I have tried a different strategy than I have tried before to attempt to - not be despised.
[Since he's actually listening now instead of just frustrated, he just also lays on the ground, arms behind his head, thinking that over.]
It's always sort of an act, you know. The trick to the secret dark magicks, when it comes to these things. You're always making - there's always a choice. And you're making a slightly different one than before and at first it's hard, because you've never done it. Like learning to talk, or read or juggle. And so you do your performance, all the time, until it feels more natural than the other way.
[Molly gets some points here for understanding that her weird cryptic talk of acts and strategy were just referring to her attempts to be a little bit less of a butthole to everybody she meets.]
It is. . . a skill that must needs be practiced, you mean.
[She hadn't ever thought of it that way. But she's beginning to realize, compared to her skill and talent in all things necromantic, how . . . underdeveloped her muscles of being a human being are. Absolutely, she thinks for a moment, and don't forget about her physical muscles on her physical noodle body, which are equally terrible and might be improved with even one single squat. But she dismisses this passing thought, an irrelevance. Instead, she recalls something else, something she's a little ashamed of.]
. . . Do you know, earlier this week I told White I would kill him. Not in jest. It was not an act, but it was ill done.
The stage metaphor is stupid, and overly complex, and requires an excess explanation. Besides, my act isn't juggling, it is puppetry.
[Which is such a dark joke but she doesn't even explain it and it still works on a slightly less horrifying level than the one she means.
Anyway, as to White, that's. . . hard. That's a hard question to answer.]
I don't want him to die, or even to fear that he might. [She. . . she cares him.] But he saw something he wasn't meant to see, and I needed to silence him. [It just doesn't seem to have occurred to her that she could have just asked him not to say anything about it.] Because killing him would not have been feasible, I needed him at least to believe that I might.
[blowing a raspberry because he liked his little speech and the puppetry joke goes right over his head. He scratches his face at the white stuff though, because,]
If you're-- I'm not very good at apology stuff, myself. [he is on pride for a reason. he so rarely believes he's in the wrong.] I suppose if there's anyone you were to threaten with death who probably will bounce back from it, it's White. You could just do what I did and make him do a little swear that he won't tell anyone anything? I actually think he'd stick to it.
[What the hell are you going on about, Molly. And also, a little less indignant - just clipped and cold.]
He could tell anyone, and why wouldn't he. Why not. Sutcliffe died, and HK-47 died, not because they were monstrous, but because they wore their grotesquery plain, for anyone to see.
If we need another sacrifice on Saturday, he would be within his rights to tell all. And I could not fault him, or even resent him, save that I have sworn an oath and cannot allow myself to die.
[ sorry, but, he gives a soft snort at comparing herself to grell and hk-47, two people who have at least some (some!) personal slight against him, making this a totally ridiculous comparision for him.
he just rubs at his neck a bit, over the red eye buried in the peacock feathers. grotesquery plain to see.]
First of all, we don't need any sacrifices on Saturday, because hopefully now that the shithead metal man is gone, people might learn a lesson about not voting for funsies. I know they won't, so no snapping about how I'm naive, but . . . maybe.
Secondly, it seems a stupid exercise to go out and lay everyone's groesqueries out for measure. We've all bloody hands here. The difference between you and them is obvious to me: you said one thing in a panic. They proudly declared a lust for gore.
[he pauses, because. well. he doesn't feel like he's going to get anywhere with debating with harrow about the weight of her crimes. he's said both in memories and to her face that he does give a single shit about the past. it just doesn't matter. he does not ask for the layout of the crimes of her house. leave it in a grave somewhere.
he reorganizes his thoughts. ]
How about this. Maybe you should consider asking him to keep his mouth shut. He knows as well as anyone else that throwing someone else's secrets out to the wolves likely won't win him friends. As I said, I don't think he's a bad person. He's got his own shit in his past. We're all just working to try and do something a little different today and tomorrow.
And if he tries to start any shit with you, I will beat the everloving daylights out of him. Okay?
[He's definitely right - debating her on the crimes of her House isn't going to get him anywhere. If he asked her to confess all, at this point she likely would, but he can't offer her forgiveness for it, or make her understand how to live with it. Let the secrets be buried within her; leave them to lie in two hundred graves.
I will beat the everloving daylights out of him is much more straightforward, anyway.]
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I didn't say you weren't! You should worry, and that's why you ought to stay with him and not me!
Though if it's your curiosity you want to satisfy, perhaps I'm wrong.
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He's fine! He's-- He's in the pod, everyone else is there, you're clearly having a moment, and I think I'm fucking allowed to be worried about you as well! Shit, Harrow!
I've never asked or pryed because if you don't want to say anything, then you don't fucking have to, but don't use it like a damned greatsword against me!
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[She's just lying on the ground. And when he mentions a greatsword, she'll start looking around. Oh, thank god - a little friend followed her in here, carrying the sword. She takes a deep breath and says, in a much calmer and more tired voice - ]
. . . No, no. That isn't what I meant at all.
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He'll just cross his arms tightly then, waiting on the explanation?]
Go on, then.
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Have I really not - I had thought it was obvious. [The way she's clung to him this past week. She thought it was so blatant, so pathetic, her desperation for continued comfort so childish. And he hadn't even realized.]
All I could do is say and do the wrong thing. But you won't.
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That's nonsense. I don't want to hear that from you. You say far more right things than me.
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I would have told you what you wanted to know, had you asked, but there are parts for which I don't have the words. I am not - skilled in that. I have never had to be, because I have never wanted to be. I have guarded all of the secrets of my House, and I suppose I would have guarded them until the day I die if this place hadn't leaked them senselessly.
But I have never learned how to say - was it as dreadful for you as it was for me?
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he just pats her on the cheek.]
Don't make it sound like some secret dark magicks from beyond the realm of mortals, Harrow.
[gently, though.]
He knows you care.
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Secret dark magicks from beyond the realm of mortals would be preferable.
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[what do these nine eyes of mine see? sorry, you have been perceived.]
I'm going to be honest with you, and I promise I won't make a habit of the truth, but your little boney exterior act doesn't have a single one of us fooled.
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[She doesn't say this defensively, just evenly. It sounds like something she actually means.]
Or if anything, the act has been - this part. I have tried to behave in a manner that is unnatural to me, because I was told it could help me achieve my goals. I have tried a different strategy than I have tried before to attempt to - not be despised.
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[Since he's actually listening now instead of just frustrated, he just also lays on the ground, arms behind his head, thinking that over.]
It's always sort of an act, you know. The trick to the secret dark magicks, when it comes to these things. You're always making - there's always a choice. And you're making a slightly different one than before and at first it's hard, because you've never done it. Like learning to talk, or read or juggle. And so you do your performance, all the time, until it feels more natural than the other way.
[building a new person, as it were.]
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It is. . . a skill that must needs be practiced, you mean.
[She hadn't ever thought of it that way. But she's beginning to realize, compared to her skill and talent in all things necromantic, how . . . underdeveloped her muscles of being a human being are. Absolutely, she thinks for a moment, and don't forget about her physical muscles on her physical noodle body, which are equally terrible and might be improved with even one single squat. But she dismisses this passing thought, an irrelevance. Instead, she recalls something else, something she's a little ashamed of.]
. . . Do you know, earlier this week I told White I would kill him. Not in jest. It was not an act, but it was ill done.
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Yes, but I liked the drama of the stage metaphor. Good stuff.
[At the second bit though, he actually looks over. he doesn't sound judgmental or anything.]
. . . And you wish you could take it back? Or no?
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[Which is such a dark joke but she doesn't even explain it and it still works on a slightly less horrifying level than the one she means.
Anyway, as to White, that's. . . hard. That's a hard question to answer.]
I don't want him to die, or even to fear that he might. [She. . . she cares him.] But he saw something he wasn't meant to see, and I needed to silence him. [It just doesn't seem to have occurred to her that she could have just asked him not to say anything about it.] Because killing him would not have been feasible, I needed him at least to believe that I might.
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If you're-- I'm not very good at apology stuff, myself. [he is on pride for a reason. he so rarely believes he's in the wrong.] I suppose if there's anyone you were to threaten with death who probably will bounce back from it, it's White. You could just do what I did and make him do a little swear that he won't tell anyone anything? I actually think he'd stick to it.
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[Molly himself knows this is no guarantee, but still--]
I think he's a good guy. And we're all stuck in this place for now. Who's he possibly got to blab to? He doesn't strike me as the gossipy type anyway.
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[What the hell are you going on about, Molly. And also, a little less indignant - just clipped and cold.]
He could tell anyone, and why wouldn't he. Why not. Sutcliffe died, and HK-47 died, not because they were monstrous, but because they wore their grotesquery plain, for anyone to see.
If we need another sacrifice on Saturday, he would be within his rights to tell all. And I could not fault him, or even resent him, save that I have sworn an oath and cannot allow myself to die.
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he just rubs at his neck a bit, over the red eye buried in the peacock feathers. grotesquery plain to see.]
First of all, we don't need any sacrifices on Saturday, because hopefully now that the shithead metal man is gone, people might learn a lesson about not voting for funsies. I know they won't, so no snapping about how I'm naive, but . . . maybe.
Secondly, it seems a stupid exercise to go out and lay everyone's groesqueries out for measure. We've all bloody hands here. The difference between you and them is obvious to me: you said one thing in a panic. They proudly declared a lust for gore.
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[Y'all. She's threatened to kill so many people since she's been here. It's fine.]
I speak of what he witnessed in my memories. The crimes of my House, laid bare. I have always known that one day there would be a retribution.
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[he pauses, because. well. he doesn't feel like he's going to get anywhere with debating with harrow about the weight of her crimes. he's said both in memories and to her face that he does give a single shit about the past. it just doesn't matter. he does not ask for the layout of the crimes of her house. leave it in a grave somewhere.
he reorganizes his thoughts. ]
How about this. Maybe you should consider asking him to keep his mouth shut. He knows as well as anyone else that throwing someone else's secrets out to the wolves likely won't win him friends. As I said, I don't think he's a bad person. He's got his own shit in his past. We're all just working to try and do something a little different today and tomorrow.
And if he tries to start any shit with you, I will beat the everloving daylights out of him. Okay?
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[He's definitely right - debating her on the crimes of her House isn't going to get him anywhere. If he asked her to confess all, at this point she likely would, but he can't offer her forgiveness for it, or make her understand how to live with it. Let the secrets be buried within her; leave them to lie in two hundred graves.
I will beat the everloving daylights out of him is much more straightforward, anyway.]
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[his tail hits the ground a few times, perhaps glad the tension has drained a little bit.]
I'm taking a little lesson from Beauregard with that one.
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[Nodding. She approves.]
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