[ OPEN ] these hands are growing cold

[londonbound]

WHO: Rhy Maresh and OPEN
WHAT: shortly after being summoned, Rhy is having a Rough Time of it. wandering around the halls in Castle Thorne like a very sad specter, getting drunk because coping with feelings is hard, and trying to practice magic as a distraction.
WHEN: early to mid-December
WHERE: Castle Thorne
WARNINGS: alcohol abuse, self harm, terrible coping mechanisms all around. also uh, major spoilers for A Darker Shade of Magic, sorry. nsfw marked.



I; arrival & loss.
cw: self harm

[ The words wash over him like the dull roar of a faraway ocean. Names, reassurances, a welcome. Mages. A kingdom he has never heard of, in need of his help, for some reason that makes no sense at all. The answers to his questions all nonsensical, pointless, useless. The only thing he truly wants to know, they have no response to.

Where is Kell? Where is my brother?

Not here.

Rhy imagines he can still feel the echo of Kell's pain. It had been so bright just moments ago (it seems like only moments ago), when it had ripped through him, boiling in his veins, splashing blood on the orchard ground beneath him as he fell. Pain. And then darkness. And then... here. Alone. Where he can no longer feel Kell's pain at all.

It could be hours or days later, after he is shown to a room with more beds than he'd expected. He sits on the edge his mattress, a nightly ritual throughout the first week or so of his stay here. With his tunic off, crumpled on the bed beside him, Rhy's shoulders and chest are left bare, the distinct scar forming two concentric circles over his heart starkly visible against his dark skin. He is a well-muscled man, built like a statue, the sort of prince who would cut a fine figure for a portrait -- if his back were straight, if he'd been smiling, if he'd been any of the things Prince Rhy is supposed to be.

He is none of those things now.

Rhy slumps, head down, cradling his left arm in his lap. There are angry red marks on the inside of his forearm, deep scratches barely scabbed over: s o r r y. He has not allowed the castle's healers to tend to the wound. Each night, he opens one of the letters again, one at a time, with a sharp pin.

Each night, he wraps the bandage back over the bloody scratches and waits for a man who will probably never come. ]


II; sleepless in the castle.


[ Rhy hasn't slept well since he died.

The nightmares plague him, the guilt, the worry, the anger, the fear. It all comes out at night, the monsters that lurk in the shadows by day slinking out to sink their claws into his lungs whenever he lies down. Here, he doesn't have the draughts Head Priest Tieren had given him back home (one for calm, two for quiet, three for sleep) and he hasn't wanted to ask the mages of the castle, in part due to lack of trust but also because it seems like far too much effort. Too much shame.

And so, in the small hours of the night, Rhy wanders. Sometimes, he moves in a daze through the castle until someone stops him, redirecting his steps if his way is barred. He walks in circles, makes his way through the ornate halls like a ghost, hoping that eventually his body will tire enough to let his mind go quiet.

Sometimes, he goes down into the dining areas, seeking out other draughts -- of the alcoholic rather than prescription variety. In the middle of the night, he might be found raiding the kitchen cabinets for liquor (if the castle guard do not stop him), or carrying a bottle with him in the hall. When he finds a place to sit by a window overlooking the city and the unfamiliar stars, he perches there, drinking directly from the bottle, watching the streets below.

If anyone approaches, another sleepless soul like him, he might just wave them over and offer a swig. Or several. ]


III; magic studies.

[ Rhy has never been any good at magic. The only thing he ever showed even an inkling of a ghost of a talent for is fire.

So that's where he starts. He sits at a table now, a small bowl of oil which he cups his hands around, muttering to it in Arnesian as he tries to coax a spark to light. Just like Kell taught him, even though here he's been told it's not necessary, Rhy has drawn a circle in chalk around the bowl, a binding to keep the fire from spreading. ]

Come on, little flame... [ he tries again, slipping into the common tongue, brow furrowed and nose all scrunched up with the effort. ]

Please--

[ And, suddenly, there it is.

The oil sparks, then bursts into a flame the size of a fist, consuming everything in the bowl. And staying there, to Rhy's shock. Growing, in fact, the flames flicking up to lap at his palm.

With a gasp of pain, Rhy stumbles back from the table on instinct, moving his hands away and the flame with them. ]

No, no, no-- dispel! Go away! Fuck!


( ooc; hmu via PM or plurk if you want to plot out something else! or just. wildcard at me, i'm down to clown. )

Comments

iii

[sorser]

[The flicker of newborn firelight blooms from across the room. Stephen notes it with ease, and senses the faint coiling of magic just as easily, but it’s nothing of consequence, not in this kingdom rooted in the practice of the craft. So it’s just a blip on his radar, and he’s keen to ignore it and move on, until that blip flares a little and wrings out a protest from someone nearby.

A voice he recognizes first and foremost, but he would have crossed over to meet it even if it wasn’t, hearing that what can only be a disaster in the making.

He’s not wholly wrong. The flame looks like it wants to eat Rhy’s fingertips, which is probably not what he was aiming for.]

Don’t panic. [Stephen’s voice cuts through, stern but not terribly alarmed. His hand raises and his fingers twist a little — unseen magic snuffs out the flame as though it were suffocated from oxygen. Wry—] A few third-degree burns never hurt anyone.

[londonbound]

[ The firmness of that voice -- and the twinge of familiarity at it, even if it as a new type of familiarity -- helps to ground Rhy momentarily. It is enough to steady his hands and give Stephen the moment he needs to assist him in dispelling the magic.

The flame vanishes, and Rhy breathes a sigh that is equal parts relief and frustration. His hands drop to his sides, and then he moves to right the chair he'd knocked down with a clatter. ]

Thank you.

It... got away from me, just a bit.

[sorser]

I can see that.

[He levies a glance at the set-up Rhy’s been working with, fairly straightforward for what he assumes is a fairly straightforward spell. Little more than a bowl that must have held something to fuel the conflagration.]

But it’s still progress, isn’t it? Thought you said you didn’t have any skill for magic.

[It’s clear his metric for success is not necessarily dependent upon whether or not one has almost caught themselves on fire.]

I.

[everyrosehas]

[Shionne is in a similar state, left without even the slightest amount of reassurance from all the assurances the mages of this castle have given her. Nothing fits together. Nothing... she is not meant to be here. She cannot be here, and yet the castle rises around her, the hallways cold, the people strangers. She has only just found the strength to accept the hands of another, and now they have been ripped out of her grasp.

She moves through the halls like a distracted ghost, ignoring the other company that moves around Thorne, staring at her hand. Nothing appears different. Her skin still smooth. Unharmed. Though she feels this deep well of dark, the thorns do not shudder and strike across her body.

Not yet.

A single sentence from the man who pulled her from the water (from who touched her) rings dimly in her head, over and over. It comes to mind as she pushes food into her mouth. It's there in the hallways, an unfamiliar voice, an unfamiliar concept. It will return within a week.

If she was to believe it. Which she doesn't. Impossible. It isn't the way it works. The Great Spirit would not...

Shionne doesn't really pay attention to what room she goes into. She settles into a state she had when she first came to Dahna: the most basic of necessities to take care of. Food: energy. Sleep: conserved energy. There is something coming, because there must be, and she will need to sleep.

There is no rhyme to the room she picks; those men basically offered her pick. Though the choice matters not -- it's a roof, and a bed, the basics for a good night of sleep. (And it will be empty, without the companionship of Law's snores, or Alphen's sneezes; the rustle of Hootle's feathers or Rinwell tossing another stick onto the fire. The quiet whisper of Dohalim reading aloud to himself, nearly a mumble under his breath, and then Kisara scolding him.)

The door closes behind her. She stops, looking up, as a figure turns towards her. Shionne's eyes grow wider.] O-oh. Sorry. I thought the room was empty --

[She pauses there, offering no further explanation. There's a scent in the room, acrid, sour. His arm is splayed out and she can see the edge of bandages, and a stain of blood.] You're hurt. [Where she had been reaching to exit the room a moment before, she now steps further in, crossing her arms across her chest. Realizing her tight posture, she pulls one arm back out, the hand hovering between them.] Hold it out.

[Again, there's no elaboration on the order.]

[londonbound]

[ Rhy isn't asleep. (Rhy is almost never asleep.) He looks up when he hears the door open, and his foolish traitorous absolutely asinine heart has the audacity to jump in his chest with unwarranted expectation.

It needs to stop doing this. He doesn't know how to keep patching it again and again after every disappointment.

The young woman who enters receives a slow blink at first. Then, a tired smile. ]

There are plenty of beds, if this is where you've been told there is room to stay.

[ He kind of hopes she doesn't. He kind of hopes she does. They are different kinds of loneliness. ]

Kind of you to worry, but it's quite all right. Only a scratch.

[ The way he cradles his arm closer, as if to protect it from her, says more. ]

[londonbound]

[ Rhy shakes his head, still unnerved, and more than a little confused. ]

I said that because I didn't.

Fire is the only element I can coax anything out of, but even so, it tends to be barely a spark.

[ He hesitates a moment, rubbing his singed palm and considering the bowl, the binding circle that hadn't helped, even though he'd been very careful not to smudge it. ]

The magicians in this castle tell me that all those who have been Summoned through the well have a connection to their Singularity. They mentioned I should practice, and that we should all have magical aptitude so close to this source.

I did not believe them.

[everyrosehas]

[Different kinds of loneliness really hits the mark.

She tilts her head. The majority of her hair, braided tightly down the length of her back, swings with the movement. Where her offering was innocent (and unstated), she now appears to be looking him over from head to feet with slightly narrowed eyes. Scrutinizing.

It doesn't need to mean anything. It could be a simple misunderstanding, as she is a stranger barging into a room to offer. This.

If she has to be here, she'd rather be doing something. Anything.]

I'm not worried, I'm saying I can heal it. There's no point in sitting around in pain. It doesn't make you stronger.

[The words come so easily, they may as well be rehearsed. As if she's said them, in that order, specifically. So many times before.]

[londonbound]

[ This, stated so frankly, almost makes Rhy laugh. The sound that escapes him is quiet, a breathy sort of grunt, and the amusement doesn't sound exactly mirthful.

The pain is exactly the point.

Slowly, Rhy shakes his head. The smile is more genuine than the unsteady laugh, and also much sadder. The kindness warms his heart, a gentle reminder of the capacity for good still left in the world (worlds). Despite the fact he has no intention of taking that particular offer, Rhy makes one of his own, deciding that he doesn't want to be alone, after all. ]

The pain does not bother me. But I admit I don't prefer the quiet.

You should stay.

[sorser]

[If Stephen looks and sounds dubious upon hearing all that, it’s probably because he is. He takes a moment, though, to circle around to the bowl, running a finger along the binding circle’s boundary, picking up a faint residue on his fingertip and inspecting it with idle curiosity. He then rubs his forefinger and thumb together, glancing back at the young man.]

And why not? You’ve just proven their point. It wasn’t exactly a spark that I had to put out just now.

[But Rhy’s doubt reminds him a little of himself, struggling with spellwork in his first days at Kamar-Taj. When the other sorcerers could summon perfect portals, their edges gleaming with a golden glow… and all he could manage were a few miserable sparks sputtering mid-air. He recalls those moments weighed down with frustration, with the constant questioning of What am I doing here?, and he wonders if the other feels similarly.]

I mentioned it before, but I’ve been where you’re at now. That feeling of getting nowhere. And I can give you a few pieces of advice. One — keep at it, and take what little victories you can get, until those little victories eventually add up into something bigger. And two — you’re probably overthinking it.

[everyrosehas]

[So. Not a misunderstanding. Shionne takes back her hand, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. She doesn't like it. That much is obvious in the sharp angle of her brows. This time, with this man, she doesn't push it. Something is lurking below his words, underneath the bandages. Certainly it darkens the smile he gives her, which leaves her feeling... unsteady.

As if everything here doesn't already.]

You don't look like someone who'd be this stubborn.

[Her tone is softer this time. Now that she looks him in the face, she can see the sorrow there. It calls to her own, sharp as a howl.

She moves to the opposite bed, reaching down as if she means to tuck her dress before she sits. But she is wearing only this poor, drab shirt and pants they gave her, with colors so dull it feels like they're chosen specifically to match her mood. She's feeling particularly vindictive about them, having left behind the outfit that... had felt, in the end, as if it were made for her. A gift from Naori.

A week. A week is so short a time.]

I'm warning you, I'm not exactly good company.

II

[souille]

[ Abigail is wandering the halls too, plagued by her own nightmares. She'd managed to keep them at bay both as a prisoner here in Thorne and when she was on the streets of Nott, simply because she was focusing on staying alive, but now that she feels relatively secure she's let her guard down a little. Now every time she drifts off to sleep the unforgiving stares of her father's victims follow her in her dreams. She's better off staying awake, though right now it's an effort not to close her eyes.

She sees Rhy in the hall and nearly jumps out of her skin, assuming he's a guard come to escort her back to bed, or even back to the cells, for snooping around in the small hours. When she realises he's another of the Summoned, she lets out a nervous but relieved laugh. ]

Sorry, I thought I was the only one up.

[londonbound]

[ This time, the smile Rhy flashes is almost on par with the grin of the rakish prince of months past. Bright and cocky, it transforms his face, makes him look younger-- or perhaps, it merely lets him look his age. He is only twenty. His birthday feels like ten lifetimes ago.

Rhy leans forward with his elbows on his knees, narrowing the distance between them when the girl sits. ]

Oh, I assure you. Being stubborn is one of my specialties. Hard-headed enough to crack a wall.

[ That's what Kell would say, if he were here. He would roll his eyes and grumble, muttering insults; it is his way of showing love. ]

Company is what you make of it. And, by definition, it takes more than one. Let us see where it takes us before writing it off.

Why don't we start with names? Mine's Rhy.

horizon; for jaskier.

[londonbound]

[ There is a lovely splash of green on the horizon. It calls to him, bright and sunny, shiny fat grapes hanging off the vines visible from meters away, the gentle breeze rustling through the leaves coming up to tousle his hair and caress his brow as he approaches. Rhy wanders through the vineyard for some time, enjoying the atmosphere, occasionally helping himself to some grapes. He hums as he walks, no tune he could name but something familiar (though he does not know what familiar even means) and easy.

To his surprise, Rhy notices an... answering(?) voice, floating out from somewhere nearby. He cannot see the owner yet, but it's unmistakably singing. And as he approaches, he is struck by the loveliness of the voice, eager to find out to whom it belongs. ]

[cointosser]

[It is far from the first time someone has stumbled onto his domain, now that it has extended past the caravan he'd once traveled on. He likes to think it's because it's such an attractive, calm place; the edges of Toussaint he misses from years ago. The sweet spring grasses, and turquoise skies. Puffs of white clouds, warm springs. He could travel again... and a part of him misses it.

Missed it. After the last few weeks, he wants to be still. He needs it. Perhaps stillness can grant him a measure of calm.

As a new month descends on Cadens, he spends even more time in his domain. The trellises have been weeded carefully, and he's been adding new flowers, dotted randomly as if they are wild and free. And as he works, he sings. He sings to himself, and for the simple joy of it. In the Horizon, his arm never hurts, his throat never tightens. The notes come easily and free, and every so often, Hector's bird raises its head from the shed's roof and offers a deeper note to match.

Only when the bird shifts and offers a different note does Jaskier lift his head, eyes shaded under a farmer's straw hat. (Look. They're not fashionable, but they are comfortable.) He blinks, and then smiles, finding a new treasure has come to his domain. Company -- new company, a face he doesn't recognize.

And handsome to boot. Always a good sign.]

Well, hello there! To what do I owe the pleasure? [Ah. He sees he's already made himself rather welcome to the grapes. Luckily Jaskier has already become quite accustomed, considering... well, mainly Himeka.] Worry not, friend. You're more than welcome here.

[everyrosehas]

[Despite how still she holds herself, his words make an exhalation of breath come out her nose, nearly a sigh. A ghost of a smile, coming and going at once.] Great. I have experience.

[And there it is: the thought of him. Her gaze jerks away, a clenching in her heart. He's being polite, overly polite, to a stranger that's barged into his room and done nothing more than demand to heal him. Some people are thankful for that sort of thing, maybe, but --

Alphen would already be friends with him, she thinks. In the amount of time it's taken her just to sit down. It's that easy for him. Thoughtless.

There's another voice that offers: What's the point? You don't know where you are. How you got here. The impossibilities stack on each other. You don't want to be here. You can't be. But how do you escape?

She moves further back. Thoughtless. Thoughtless for Alphen was connecting with... people. Making friends. Thoughtless for her is keeping them more than an arm's length away.]

It was a warning. Nothing more. [Her hands fall into her lap, palms pressed together, fingers folded. He must be desperate for company.] Shionne.

[Already it's more natural to only offer the first name. Her surname doesn't matter here. It hasn't, really, since Lenegis. Not to her. (And yet, Naori --

She wouldn't have seen this coming.) She searches for a topic of conversation. Small talk. Not too far in the past, it would've been a distraction. Unimportant. Realistically, she doesn't care now about niceties, as apprehensive as she is now. But she needs information, and demanding it is not getting her much.] You're alone in here. [Since he offered the bed.] I noticed most stick in pairs. Were you recently pulled out?

[Of the well. If he knows, then he understands. And certainly, the mages confirmed she was not the only one.]

[londonbound]

[ The man who approaches is dressed in vibrant red and gold, richly embroidered brocades and silks that hug his solid frame with perfectly tailored seams. The sign of The Lovers glints in gold thread at his lapel on one side; on the other, a crest, a chalice and a rising sun. Atop his head sits a circlet of gold, and across his face a brilliant smile.

Rhy stops before the stranger in the straw hat, spreading his arms to gesture at everything around them. ]

It would seem the pleasure is mine, or at the very least, shared.

Is this vineyard yours? I sampled the grapes. They are superb.

[londonbound]

[ In truth, Rhy had not believed them because he hadn't had this power when he first arrived. There's something else about being here-- this place, specifically. The Singularity and its influence. The Singularity's power. It must be that, since he knows he had just about none to start.

But he manages not to argue, and tries instead to listen. There is something of Kell in this man (or maybe it's just that Rhy wants so badly to see him everywhere), but he can almost hear the words in his brother's tone.

'You're overthinking it.'

Perhaps he is. Magic is a thing one is supposed to feel, to respect. Not command. Perhaps in trying too hard, he'd let it go out of control. (Doesn't that sound familiar? laughs the little voice in his head, and Rhy shoves it back down.)

He takes a deep, steadying breath, still feeling a little shaky. Then nods. ]

How did you stop overthinking it?

[londonbound]

What a lovely name.

[ It's not a platitude out of politeness; he really means it.

Silence rarely bothers him, as he is usually the one who fills it with no problem, but lately-- that's been hard. Harder still in this new place. He's glad she stayed, even if the silence now feels heavy. At least it isn't empty.

At her question, Rhy nods. ]

Very recently. They haven't even given me clothes that fit yet. I see you are in the same unfashionable condition. [ The least of their problems, he's sure, but also the least unpleasant to use as smalltalk. ]

In pairs, you say? Lucky that you stumbled in on me, then. Now there are two of us alone in here.

[ For once in his life, he doesn't even mean it in a flirtatious way. He just means they can stick together, if she wants. ]

[londonbound]

[ Rhy is similarly startled in a nearly comical fashion as they both see one another when he rounds a corner and jump. He blinks, bleary-eyed with drink and sleeplessness. Then smiles, a bit lopsided. ]

Nothing to apologize for! [ Perhaps he's forgotten it's the middle of the night; he is not quiet. ] Hello, who have we here?

Care to join me for a nightcap?

[ He lifts the bottle in his hand, wiggling it around. It sloshes, half empty. Heavens knows how he managed to pilfer it, but for a prince, Rhy has very quick fingers and similarly little regard for rules. At least silly ones like keeping the kitchens closed at night. ]

[sorser]

[Despite his responsibilities back home, Stephen has never tried his hand at mentorship. It’s nearly bizarre to find himself trying to parrot back advice he had once heard from a woman with far more experience taking fledgling magic-wielders under her wing.

You cannot beat a river into submission, she had told him, employing metaphor to get the point across. He understood the idea soon after. How magic had a flow, a fickle will of its own; where it would twist left if you forced it too hard to turn right.]

Think of it this way: you’re not a blacksmith, hammering away at magic like it’s steel, forcing it into the shape you want.

[Exerting control in all aspects. Yes, he had that problem in spades.]

Instead, you’re a conduit — an extension, leading the spell in the direction it already wants to go. Approaching it that way takes a lot less effort on your part. A lot less overthinking.

[londonbound]

[ Lucky for Stephen (for both of them, probably), this concept is actually very familiar to Rhy. In Arnes, every child is taught to respect magic, to work with it. Magic can be guided and it can be asked, but it's not something to force ones will on completely. It can be controlled to a point, since rampant magic is also dangerous, but pushing too far can be equally bad.

Rhy nods. The ideas themselves aren't new, and they have never been the problem. Simply his lack of talent. ]

Balance in all things. [ He says it by rote, just as he was taught (and has never been very good at, in all honesty). ]

I am familiar with the idea of guiding magic. Though I am less... used to being a successful conduit, as you say.

Perhaps a firmer hand is needed? Or the opposite?

How am I supposed to know?

[sorser]

[Balance in all things, a concept that Stephen would ascribe to the entirety of the universe if he could. Too bad something is always trying to push it off-kilter, some wrench in the machine that mucks it all up. But the idea is easily understood by Rhy, unquestioned, and there’s no reason for Stephen to push the notion any further.

Instead, advice that is far less cerebral and a lot more… mundane.]

Practice. Consistent study. You’ll know through failing over and over again, until muscle memory picks up the slack. The brain likes to intuitively cement small successes in its pathways, even if you aren’t aware of it.

[He gestures at Rhy, before folding his arms across his chest.]

Not that you have to do it alone. I’ll be here a lot, too. I need to understand how this world’s magic works, which means starting from square one all over again. So -- practice and study.

[cointosser]

[Friend, indeed. Though Jaskier is dressed down when he works on his vineyard, both the grapes and the flowers that are beginning to abound, he can more than appreciate noble finery and their bright, beautiful colors. (Red and gold. Classic, and a favorite.) As the stranger comes closer, Jaskier lets his eyes wander.

The Lovers. Interesting.]

It is, indeed, the fruits of my labor. Ah. Literally. [He smiles, wiping his hands clean on a dirtied apron, which disappears into nothing. If only handsome men were even more inclined to stumble upon his domain. However, for a second, his smile falls. If it's a face he doesn't recognize, and he is here in the Horizon, then... it is another soul pulled to this world against his will.

Jaskier steps closer, giving him a polite bow.] You flatter me, my lord. [He has to joke. Look at the circlet! What sort of person imagines that sort of thing here?] Jaskier, at your service. [He straightens up.] You know, you don't look the sort to go about sampling one's grapes. [He tilts his head, putting a hand on his hip.] May I ask where you're from?

[londonbound]

[ It seems Rhy does not pick up on the joke; no, for him it feels entirely natural, and there is no reason at all that being addressed as a lord should feel flippant or unnecessary. He nods, gracing his host with a warm, sunny smile.

Which turns very quickly into a rakish smirk, one eyebrow quirking suggestively as Rhy steps closer. He clasps his hands behind his back casually, leaning forward a bit to peer through thick, dark eyelashes. ]

See, that's where you're mistaken. I delight in sampling grapes of all sorts.

[ The playfulness falters only slightly at the question. His lips purse, shoulders lifting as he straightens, dropping in a vague shrug as he lets his arms fall to rest at his sides again. Rhy shakes his head. ]

I'm not quite sure. Does it matter?

[cointosser]

[His brows raise. Oh. All right. If he does not expect handsome men to drop out of nowhere into his vineyard, it is even less so that he expects them to flirt with him first. Of course Jaskier is a catch, but as of late, a fun bit of flirting or sex has not been on his mind. (Thanks, Geralt.)

Yet now how quickly he warms to hear it. The smile that comes to his face comes far easier than they have in weeks.]

We are two of a kind, then. [His curiousity is only that, yet the answer was, in a way, what he'd been afraid of. Gods, the last thing he wanted to deal with was one of the new ones, with their fragmented memories.

His smile drops a little; the same amount his friend's shoulders drop.] No, I suppose not. You'll recall soon enough. [He lets it go. There's no need to alarm him. It's surprising enough that his lost memories haven't seem to upset him at all.] Come, my friend, at least take a load off. I have any amenity you could possibly want. [Or, well. He can create it.] I'll take your name in payment.