abraxaslogs | EVENT #3: AN EXECUTION OF SORTS

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EVENT #3: AN EXECUTION OF SORTS

THE EXECUTION

As if performing a vicious mockery for what should be a somber day, the sun shines brightly in the sky. The rays of sun catch the iron brackets that hold up the gallows that have been erected overnight for the occasion, the gentle breeze causing the noose to swing ominously. Public executions do not happen frequently in Thorne, so a crowd gathers in strained anticipation of the grim sentence.

The welcome guests, who have up until this point been free to come and go within the confines of the castle, have been mandated to view the execution. It is meant to serve both as an example of Thorne’s power as well as a lesson to those who might think to try the same. The courtyard, which was buzzing with quiet murmurs, turns silent as Ambrose strides up the wooden steps of the gallows, flanked by two guards and a haggard-looking Jonathan Sims, arms bound behind him. As the guards march their charge to the trapdoor that will serve as executioner and position the noose around his neck, Ambrose turns to address the crowd that has gathered- willfully or not.

“Citizens of Thorne, our esteemed welcomed guests, it is with disappointment and a heavy heart that we’ve gathered to see to the execution of one of the very guests we sought aid from in our time of need. In a selfish and distrustful act, I was attacked, an action I cannot abide.”

He turns halfway toward his charge. “Jonathan Sims, you are charged with assault and intention of lethal harm. The punishment is to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. May the gods have mercy on your soul.”

Ambrose raises his arm to signal the executioner to pull the lever to release the trapdoor beneath Jon’s feet, steely expression locked on the prisoner’s face one last time.

MEANWHILE

Several miles away, atop a hill in the forest, two figures meet between portals. Oliver, tall and lithe, steps out to stand next to a petite waif of a woman who looks at him with a familiar smile. Her voice is lilting like a songbird’s when she speaks up, turning her gaze back over the city.

“Find out anything good?”

He hums softly, his hands clasped behind his back. “Two dozen prisoners, give or take. The one I met was very grateful for our assistance.”

“That’s good. Perhaps her gratitude will endear our cause to them.”

With a nod, he takes a deep breath and then sighs. “It’s time, Elizabeth,” he says, lifting one hand to open a new portal.

She nods and raises her arms above her head, eyes closing in concentration. Her arms begin to glow green while the grass around her begins to ripple in rings. The very ground seems to surge with power that radiates outward from her, and it isn’t long before the castle and the town are engulfed in a heavy air of intense magic. It courses from her in shockwaves.

Satisfied, Oliver steps through the portal.

In the wake of the magic flood, the walls of the dungeons seem to shudder for a long moment, and the doors suddenly clink open. No guards come rushing in to shut them, and in fact, all ambient noise in the dungeons seems to stop as the whole of the people of Thorne freeze in place. The hall becomes lit by daylight as a portal opens at the end of it, showing them the crowd of welcomed guests and Jon alone on the platform.

In the portal, alone stands Oliver, hand offered to the prisoners in welcome. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, though this seems to be by nature rather than intention.

“Please come with me.”

CHOICES

Everything is happening quickly.

Once through the portal to the execution yard there's a moment of chaos and confusion at the sudden arrivals and then it stops. Everything and everyone has stopped, save for the guests, the prisoners, and the two mages who have come to their aid. Guards freeze in place. The attended mages are still as statues. Banners lifted by the wind remain where they are and even the noose hanging from the gallows stills.

"Time for them is halted." Oliver addresses the assembled, his voice projected to be heard but his tone calm. "It will remain so for one hour, no more. An hour is all you have to make your choices. Remain here in Thorne, or take a portal to either Solvunn or the Free Cities. The portals cannot be traced by the Thorean authorities, so no need to fear them giving chase.”

Elizabeth emerges from a portal behind him, which closes as she enters the yard. They both raise an arm and two white circles spread through the air, showing new towns in the distance on the other side. There is an ethereal glow around them.

“The Free Cities are martially powerful and seek to destroy the Singularity,” Oliver narrates, gesturing at one of the portals. “Solvunn is reclusive and claims neutrality, both in politics and in regard to the Singularity. I advise that you think hard about your choice. Travel between cities is not exactly easy."

He turns back to the crowd with an almost apologetic smile. “I'm sorry you don't have more time to make this decision. We’ll meet again.”

Opening a third portal with the wave of her arm, Elizabeth, who has not spoken a word, gives the group a wink and leaves with Oliver. Their portal closes behind them, leaving everyone to begin making moves.

Now is the time to make serious choices. Two portals stand in the courtyard, one courtesy of Oliver and one of Elizabeth. The Free Cities and Thorne are enemies, Solvunn watching both to see where the cards end up falling. None trust one another, none work with one another beyond trade through middle-men in Solvunn. The clock is ticking.

Someone should probably get Jon out of that noose.

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She curses under her breath before even turning around to face him. Ronan fucking Lynch; the last person she'd expected to see even as a part of her had considered that this was all a punishment he'd dealt her to teach a lesson.

She turns to face him, the slight wobble in her movement only serving to incense her further. If she's feeling this bad, he ought to be dead already -- but of course, he hadn't been in the cells with her. He's even got his sword with him. She ought to have known she couldn't best him, not even in her dreams. Not even with the help of a psychic and a moderator who'd lied to her and told her she stood a chance of seeing her next birthday. She'd never had a chance, and it had been cruel of all of them to make her think she'd even briefly have the upper hand.

She knew she should've run through that portal faster.

"What's the matter, Lynch? Can't bring yourself to do what you clearly came here for?"

There's a part of her that's relieved to see him, even if he has come to kill her. It'll be kinder than the Lace, at least. Better than slowly drowning from the inside out.

"I'd ask you the same question, but you're clearly getting a taste of your own medicine. Gonna be hard to kill me when you're already half-dead."

More than half-dead, really. Any minute, she'll be getting the black. Now that his hand is free of his sword, Ronan offers it to her. Truce, for the love of God. This isn't the time for Hennessy to get all Hennessy about everything.

"Forget this shit," he tells her. "We need to dream."

Hennessy scoffs half-heartedly at his assertion -- both of them, really. She has no actual desire to kill him. Bryde, maybe, though so long as he was asleep somewhere she wasn't he could wake up in a hundred years and recruit Ronan's grandkids for all she cared.

"Don't be dramatic. I was just leaving."

She looks back at the portal. It's close enough. She could make a run for it and hope he's not stubborn enough to follow.

She absently scratches her nose, which has chosen that moment to tickle, and draws away fingers lightly tinged with a few drops of black. A wild impulse to run flits through her head and is quickly overtaken by the inevitable fear that's kept her alive this long. When it comes down to it, she wants to live. And right now Ronan seems to want that, too, for whatever stupid reason has him offering her his hand in an unbearably earnest fashion.

She scowls at him even as she takes it, figuring this will go faster if she allows him to haul her stumbling carcass wherever the hell he thinks they can dream around here. But she's not gonna be happy about it where he can see.

"Guess you get to play hero again after all."

Ronan expects her to run. He watches her closely, watches the intent turn over inside her head, ready to make chase and grab her the instant she gives in to the impulse.

The nightwash settles the matter for both of them.

His hand closes tight around hers, not like a trap snapping shut but the same way he's always held her hand, like she's slipping off the edge of a cliff and he's dragging her to safety. He wants to do more, too — tug her into an embrace, squeeze tight and ask what the fuck she was thinking — except there's a good chance she'd seize the opportunity to stab him in the back with his own sword. So all he does is tug her along, leading her swiftly toward the castle.

"You can get back to playing the villain after we're done dreaming," he coolly retorts.

Hennessy allows herself to be led, though the castle looks like the opposite of safety from where she's standing. She doesn't have any better ideas beyond trying to stay on her feet long enough to get away from the apparent magic fight that's happening outside.

His accusation nearly makes her pull away again in spite of the very real feeling that she's close to drowning. She doesn't want to be saved out of pity just to be stabbed in the back later.

"That's your Dream Daddy's job. Where is Bryde, anyway?"

Her tone is too flippant in a way that betrays an undercurrent of fear. She trusts Ronan to be decent, but doesn't actually know what Bryde will do to her if he's somehow awake.

Ronan stops.

Where is Bryde? Probably the same place Matthew is. The same place Lindenmere is. He'd been doing his best not to think about where Bryde is, because he's gone, along with everything else Ronan loves. And here he is, holding the hand of the person responsible.

He's not kidding himself. If he saves her life, she'll probably do it again. If Ronan's still capable of dreaming, it means he's capable of dreaming up the solution for what she did to the ley line, which means she'll keep trying to do all she can to stop him. And if she finds out about the Singularity, she'll go straight for the source.

Bryde wouldn't have wanted Hennessy dead, though, and neither does Ronan. She's been manipulated, her mind all twisted up by the Moderators using her deepest fears and insecurities. He can't forget who the real villains are.

"Bryde's not here," Ronan answers steadily, and without looking at her, he resumes their journey toward the dormitories.

It's not as simple as Ronan thinks, though it's an argument she's not equipped to have in detail. She hadn't wanted him dead any more than she'd wanted Jordan dead, despite the argument she'd had with her dreamt twin in which she'd claimed exactly that.

There was an order of operations somewhere in the back of her mind that didn't quite qualify as a plan, because planning meant investing a degree of hope beyond the flicker she'd held long enough to trust a moderator and a visionary. Somewhere in that order was find Ronan and try not to let him die. Liliana had assured her it would be okay. She wanted so desperately for that to be true that she'd leapt without looking.

Now, with her vision starting to blur as black teardrops trickle from the corners of her eyes, she's reconsidering what okay might mean. She stumbles on a stair as they make their way inside but would honestly prefer to fall on her face than cling any more tightly to the person she's definitely going to have a knock-down-drag-out swordfight with later.

"Nice castle," she mumbles, coughing a little as the bitter taste of nightwash hits the back of her throat. She's resentful that he's gotten the nice parts of it while she was stuck in jail, but she's not coherent enough now to access the biting comment she'd meant to follow up with.

Hennessy doesn't have to cling any more tightly. Ronan's already got her covered, his strong grip keeping her from slipping more than an inch. He'd toss her over his shoulder and carry her if these were the good old days, but at this point, he's convinced she'd claw his eyes out before allowing that to happen.

Anyway, they're almost there. Ronan casts a glance back to her just long enough to gauge how much nightwash is spilling out of her, then hisses a curse under his breath, picking up the pace.

Her resentment won't be eased by their arrival at his bedroom. Ronan practically kicks open the door, revealing the opulent room with its four enormous beds and their heavy-curtained canopies. He leads her straight to his bed, ready to hoist her up onto it if she can't make the climb herself.

It's only now that he remembers the missing piece in this equation. He's going to have to dream with Hennessy in order to keep out the Lace, but he needs his own caretaker to prevent him from using all this magic in the air to manifest his own terrors.

"Kylo," he speaks out loud, shouting it at the same time with his mind: Kylo!

Hennessy isn't sure if Kylo is a name or a magical incantation of some sort, or if she's even correctly parsing words as she struggles to crawl onto his bed as her vision greys out almost entirely. She swipes weakly at her face, aware that she's messing up his nice clean sheets with the inky death that's honestly preferable to the other one right up to the moment she finds herself choking, unable to draw another breath.

She's dimly aware of her body panicking, flailing in an attempt to breathe, and then she's coughing more black goo and sucking air into burning lungs and trying not to pass out before she's sure Ronan's going to follow her down. The Lace is hungry, and she's not sure she's strong enough to let herself drown to deny it a last meal.

Having sensed a distress that clearly required attention some time ago, Kylo isn't as far behind the two dreamers as might be expected. Kirigan and the newcomers are just as capable as he is of defending Ambrose from any further attempted attack— but Ronan has made it very clear that there is no-one else he trusts to defend him.

Which is why he's a little surprised to discover on his appearance in the doorway that Ronan isn't alone. Nor, it appears, is the fear he's been signaling for his own safety. There's a girl he doesn't recognise sagging weakly in an attempt to settle herself on Ronan's bed, Ronan radiating distress beside her.

"I'm here," he says. His eyes flick from the stricken stranger to Ronan's form, bent in a pose of concerned caretaking. It isn't difficult to pick up the essentials when Ronan's practically bleeding a demand for Kylo's help, all of it turned in his direction. The rest can wait.

"I know. Tell me what you need."

Kylo arrives a hell of a lot sooner than expected — thank god thank god thank god — just as Ronan's scrambling onto the bed beside Hennessy. Even a minute of further delay might have been too much. She already looks half-dead.

"I need to dream with her," Ronan tells Kylo as he fusses over Hennessy, turning her onto her side so the nightwash can spill out of her mouth instead of pooling and drowning her. He doesn't give a damn about the sheets. "Put us to sleep at the same time and be ready for a nightmare."

The Lace is unmistakable. He's sure Kylo will know it when he sees it. Ronan shrugs off his scabbard and sets VEXED TO NIGHTMARE on the bed beside him, adding, "Use that to kill it if it comes."

As Ronan lays down, he grips Hennessy's shoulder. "We'll fix this," he promises breathlessly. Then he nods in signal to Kylo.

The appearance of this new person gives Hennessy something for her brain to focus on besides the suffocating panic that she can't afford to drag into the dream. She frowns and rasps out some barely-intelligible sentiment that lands somewhere in between thanks and the fuck are you?

Then she's curling into herself, her eyes squeezed shut as though she's capable of willing herself to sleep any faster or stopping the steady trickle of nightwash. Really she'd like to just sink through the bed and into the floor rather than allow a stranger to see her like this, but already she can tell that this Kylo is no stranger to Ronan.

There's no time to feel the resentment that realization brings with it. She nods something like her assent in answer to Ronan's reassurance, allowing herself to draw what small measure of comfort she can from him and fixing a picture in her head to draw with her into the dream: the borrowed mansion that had last felt like home, in whose luxurious bedroom she could almost pretend she's curled up.

Edited 2021-09-15 21:03 (UTC)

Kylo's quick eye catches far more detail than might ordinarily be expected of a man caught in a room with this much panic— but his curiosity will keep. Whoever this girl is, her survival is vitally important to Ronan. That's enough. Kylo takes Ronan's sword in readiness, sets his gaze carefully on his face before flicking his attention to the girl laid beside him. He stretches out his hand, lets his eyes close, and reaches.

The push is less smooth than the first time he guided Ronan into the dark, but the power no less irresistible. Sleep rears up to capture the dreamers with all the weight of a wave rolling over the ocean, wild and untamed.

She'll wonder about that power later, whether its owner is another Bryde or perhaps something like a Visionary. She's gathered that there are all kinds of people with powers here, but thus far she's been limited to the ones stuck in the dungeon with her.

It'll wait. Possibly forever, because her plan --as much as she has one-- is to dream a thing and then get the hell out of Thorne. But first things first. She opens her eyes and takes a deep breath in and out, and then another, convincing her body that it's alive before she even begins to processes her surroundings.

It's not really the old mansion, for which she's secretly grateful. She hadn't really wanted to revisit the spot where most of her girls had died. It is a space she feels as though she's dreamt before; an impossible house whose architecture gleefully disobeys real-life physics while still being aesthetically pleasing to experience. The bedroom she's awakened in is a riot of color, entirely unconducive to sleep, but she's already standing and headed for the nearest way out before the other thing she fears can find her here. There's a closet behind her; she knows what she'll find if she turns and opens it.

Don't think about it. Don't even name it. Find Ronan, dumbass.

She doesn't have to find him. Ronan is there as soon as she thinks of him, as readily present as anything else manifested in a dream. He opens the door to the hall — although the dream is confused about whether he's standing in the bedroom or outside of it when he does — and then he takes his place beside her as a steady guide.

"I'm stronger than I've ever been," he tells her, which is either a reassurance or a warning, depending on where her loyalties lie today. If the Lace is the enemy, she can trust him to keep it at bay. But if she's decided she wants this dream to be the one that destroys him... Well, it's not going to be as easy as last time.

"Fantastic. I feel safer already."

It's said in as deeply a sarcastic manner as she can manage, but it's not actually a lie. She knows he's got her back even if she kind of hates him for it. She's not here to fight him. Not today. She is, however, here to find the thing she'll need the day she decides to.

"How long before the wizards decide to throw you in jail? Or straight-up execute you? Is your new boyfriend a wizard? Or did you dream him, too?"

It's a rapid-fire burst of questions she pretends not to care for the answers to, designed only to keep her own anxiety at bay as she stalks down the hallway looking for where her subconscious might've put the damn magic sword.

Ronan follows at an unhurried pace while still managing — by virtue of his height or simply the way of dreams — to remain on her heels. She might not be looking at his face, but his mood seeps into the air like a chilly draft. Though months have passed since she betrayed him, the wound is as fresh as it was the day she dreamt the life out of him. And she must know it, because she wields Bryde like a knife and comes at him with the truth all over again.

He doesn't attempt to parry. Dodging instead, Ronan says, "I didn't know they had you down there. I would've come for you."

Bryde hurt her too; she's not sure Ronan realizes what a disappointment it was to learn that the mentor she'd wanted to impress in spite of herself had only been Ronan's wish, a shittier side of himself just like some of the girls had been for her. She hates that she'd fallen for it. She'd nearly been ready to help them burn the world down.

She doesn't want to think about it what it means that Bryde had helped her dream the matching weapon to Ronan's. That even he knew they'd be enemies one day.

"You would've died the minute you walked in, probably."

She won't look at him as she stops at a bookshelf full of pretentious titles she sure belong to no real-world books and regards it contemplatively. Would she have built in a secret door to hide her prize? Probably not. Too obvious. On to the next room.

"It takes a little longer than that."

Not much, though. Ronan can feel the emptiness of the dungeon killing him every time he sets foot in there, which is exactly why he never found her. It would have taken much more than curiosity to draw him back to that place.

Still, he's sorry. She's choking on nightwash right now because he was a coward. He can't help but feel responsible for that. It's so stupid, really, considering where they left things. If it were all up to Hennessy, she'd lock him down there and throw away the key, and he's fucking sorry.

Meanwhile, she's looking for something to kill him with.

"Maybe you can't find it," he suggests, drowning his hope in an acidic tone, "because you're scared to use it."

The accusation hits its mark and Hennessy hisses as though stung, whirling about to shoot a furious glare at him because the other alternative is letting the fear catch up with her.

"Can we not?"

The fight they need to have isn't the one she wants to have in here, not when he's got the upper hand even in her own space. Not with the Lace (don't name it) threatening around the edges of her psyche, always and forever. Not when she knows he's still trying to save her.

"It's here, the real one. I can tell. I won't dream a copy."

She's not sure that makes any sense, since the real one should be back in the waking world, in the teahouse where she'd fallen asleep. But she's so used to forgeries that she thinks she has to try harder for the real thing, and therefore the dream responds as though she does.

She already knows what Bryde would say about copies, so Ronan doesn't bother. It's not as if they need to rush. Hennessy may be rapidly deteriorating, but dream time stretches a lot further than waking time, and Ronan is here to sustain her. The Singularity is here to sustain her. He can feel the comforting pulse of its power threading through his blood, and if he wanted, he could take this dream from Hennessy and give her exactly what she's looking for.

Ronan isn't eager to hand her the blade she'll stab in his back, however, so he doesn't try. Instead he watches her search, while some other part of him focuses on keeping the Lace locked inside that closet, while another part of him surreptitiously rifles through the drawers of this dreamspace to find the answer to the question that's been turning over and over in his mind since Hennessy left him to die: Why? Why did you leave me?

"You can get it later if you make sure this isn't the last time you dream. Just grab something easy."

Something easy. As if she'd ever found dreaming easy, as though she could create anything that wasn't born of pure desperate necessity. Everything in here is strange and loud and impossible, just the way she wants it, and not one single piece of it will do her any good back there if they decide to throw her back into jail before she can run.

Neither will FROM CHAOS, for that matter, but she'd feel a lot better about her chances against a castle full of wizards if she had her magic sword or at least a mindfuck sphere in her pocket. But the latter wasn't as immediate and visceral as the one with a pointy end, and it wouldn't be any good against the thing that was waiting to eat her alive. Having it in her hands at the end is almost worth drowning for, but the part of her that wants to live disagrees enough to spur her onward in search of something she knows she can bring back correctly.

She runs down a spiral staircase faster than anyone ought to be able to manage in the heels she's wearing, and there's a freshly-packed suitcase (zebra-striped, amazingly tacky) waiting for her by the front door. She sighs, exasperated, and grabs it. At least a change of clothes will be useful.

"Fine. Whatever. Let's go before I melt."

Ronan joins her a moment later by the front door. He's somehow procured a damp face towel, though there really wasn't enough time in the space between her descent and his own for him to find a bathroom, grab a towel, and run it under a sink. He probably conjured it out of thin air. Or he was holding it this whole time. Anyway, she'll need to wipe all the shit off her face when they wake up, and this is a lot faster than a trip to the baths.

"Alright," he drawls, his free hand clasping hers. "Here we go, cowboy."

A part of her resents how attentive he's being. Even if she's shit at looking after herself, why is he still trying this hard?

Later, she promises herself. They'll have that fight later. She clutches the handle of the suitcase tightly and -- since Ronan's decided to claim her other -- kicks the door open--

-- and then she's awake, curled around her prize that is suddenly just there as though she'd gone to sleep with it, body struggling to breathe as she's not yet in control of it. It'll be a little while before she can do anything about that. But she's alive. She didn't drown and the Lace didn't eat her. The rest can wait, like everything else.

Edited 2021-09-17 03:39 (UTC)

It's a shorter dream than Kylo expected, which is probably all for the best. He's still stood on active guard when the dreamers return with their gains, VEXED TO NIGHTMARE in hand and keen eyes flicking between their faces— and yet somehow he still manages to miss the moment when exactly the violently black-and-white patterned suitcase and the damp towel make their appearance from nothing.

No nightmare beasts this time. The black mess seems to have slowed its oozing progress. Kylo's fingers curl impatiently around the hilt of the dreamsword, waiting for the dreamers to stir from their paralysis.

Ronan has some explaining to do.

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