[It's not good is all he can think. It's... not good.
With Sky, there was nothing to hear or smell except the acrid ozone of primordial arcane magic and ash. But that's a different memory altogether.
With the lump in his throat again, he stares down at what he's done. Honestly, he doesn't know how to respond at all. He doesn't know how to answer the question with anything that is remotely sane. Or smart. With Father.]
[that's okay. the memory doesn't require a response. maybe throné didn't say anything either. or maybe --
maybe it's just that the memory shifts. something black drips from the corner of father's mouth. and then faster than that - darkness billows from his eyes, his mouth, the wind whipping around the both of you. and then you're not in the sewer. not anymore - no, you're in an old church, the remains of it broken and rotting. you are facing that same man down, and this time, he's maniacal. he's bleeding from where you've managed to slice at him, and he's cackling.
you hear father scream your name, and you shove a dagger right into his gut, and --
and then, abruptly, without any warning at all, you are thrown out of this memory. and this time, throné is here as an adult with both her hands over her face. jesus.]
It's confusing, being so terrified, so full of fear, and then so full of disgust, and then heartache, confusion. All at once. A man that deserves more hate than maybe a heart can give, and yet,
and yet.
It's too soon for catharsis, or maybe none comes even comes at all after such a deed. He stumbles slightly as he's dumped back, full-body, but what feels like in his body. He tries to fix his ragged breathing, then startles at Throné. He reaches out immediately, steps forward, though hesitates with the gesture.]
[IT'S JUST THE WAY BATTLE SPRITES ARE IN OCTOPATH HELP
... and yet. and yet. there's this horrible, aching grief that she feels. a guilt. not regret, but just... the kind of thing you cling to, because it was the only family you ever had, and you destroyed it with your own two hands.
she drags her hands down her face and looks at him.]
He finishes his movement forward, touching her lightly on the shoulder and arm at first, and then wrapping both arms around her shoulders. He hugs her tightly to himself, trying to squeeze out whatever reassurance he can.]
[it's silly, almost. she's free, now. the collar isn't around her neck anymore, but she can almost feel the sensation of it, the fabric rough and coarse against her skin. she coughs a little, and then wraps her arms around him in return and holds him.
it's okay. she's alright. she's... worked through this, mostly, she's tried. people have talked her through it, as best they can. but this is years and years of something nasty and painful left to rot, and he's so kind to her like he always is, and she can't help it, she just kind of lets herself cling.
she thinks about asking if it was alright to call him dad, as he died on the ground of that church, and how temenos had frowned so hard it'd almost been audible.
she doesn't know what to think about it anymore, so she just stays where she is and breathes, comes down from the adrenaline.]
[He's sure it all plagues her dreams almost every night. That, for certain, he is familiar with now. Nightmares about the horrors. And he wonders, too, if she finds they ebb when she is with Arthur like his somehow quiet when he is with Lucien.
And he hopes that is true for her, that love, actual real love, gives her some kind of reprieve.]
It's me. I'm here. It's not real.
[His hold doesn't loosen from around her, not even to look her in the face.]
I'm sorry, Throné. I know that's very hard. I know that was hard.
[he's not wrong, is the thing. it's easier when she's around arthur. she's found something that brings an amazing amount of peace to her life, and she doesn't want to let it go.
and she doesn't want to let this go, either - the easy comfort viktor gives her, the kindness in his voice and the way he tells her that it was hard, and that it's okay to think that it was. the people here tell her this all the time. it's okay, you're okay, and you'll be okay. it's something she's never had before this.
after a couple of minutes, she's calmed down enough to speak, and she murmurs:]
[He knows she probably won't believe him entirely, not with "all of the great atrocities I've done," but he isn't without his share of atrocities either. You can be a good person and still make mistakes.]
Don't look back. You have so much ahead of you now, more than ever.
[she's... starting to believe it, at least. over time, people have convinced her to be less stupid, and thankfully she's one of the easier people to convince of mine. the girl has some self esteem! amazing!]
I know. [a beat, and she shifts so she can kiss him on the side of the head, gentle and sweet. get loved and cherished back!!] I intend to take it.
Also hehe. He will lean down and accept this kiss even if it makes him extremely shy when she does it! HE'S THIRTY, BUT IS ACTING LIKE A LITTLE SCHOOL BOY GETTING A KISS FROM THE HOT TEACHER!!!]
Good.
[It's her turn, without fanfare or warning.
She's in a cave built into a work room. Sparse and earthy, infected by industry. Piping, work tables, tools, and a giant tubular device full of strange liquid and a creature, almost completely dead, inert, submerged into it.
Throne can see her reflection looking back at her through the pod's glass, but it's the reflection of a familiar man who has slept only a few hours between several days, a man who aches, whose lungs are tight, who is withering away and desperate for life.
Behind her, is a man she knows from her childhood she has run to when all other options had been expended, a man she knows can probably help her even though his methods are the purist form of cut-and-dry research, detached from ethics.
He gives her an option to accept, handing it out to her in a little vial full of purple liquid. Shimmer. A variant. She thinks Jayce would understand, having wanted to help him so badly.
There is a price to pay for progress. Will she pay it?]
but she doesn't get the chance to really react to it so much, because she's in a cave, watching a creature. the part of her that is her does not like that - it's horrible and she does not want it to die. she gets caught watching it struggle for a second with a moment of extreme sympathy, and then...
the man offers her a vial.
a price to pay. there always is. and there's something about it that feels familiar. the price to be free. she hesitates, but.
[They will despise her, but none of them understand what it's like to know death is breathing down the back of their necks at the peak of their lives.
It's time.
She is in a work room very different than the one in the cave. This one, on the surface, is painted in luxury, progress. Posh. Elevated. Rich. The way Piltover looks to those who can only glean the outside of it.
She puts the scalpel down. There is something unusual on her she has not seen on the body she knows she is in: a metal brace from thigh to ankle, stabilizing the leg. But some of the pieces are familiar from the time long ago when she looked over his body, the slivers of it twisted into the flesh of his leg, becoming one with him.
She has carved tiny runes in both the skin of the leg and the metal of the brace, the same runes that are on each side of the many pyramids of the Core hovering in front of her.
The vial of Shimmer is in a syringe gun on the work table. This will work, she thinks. She believes. This will work. This is how she unlocks the secrets of life and death. It isn't like she has anything to lose. Her life?
She was losing it anyway.
There is a price to pay for progress. To give up humanity, to change a nature, to bypass ethos. Rio's life was a sacrifice to this. Little Rio, her body being kept alive inside a vat, a mutation you were told that must survive.
[she watches herself go through the motions, through the reasoning, through the convincing.
she thinks - there is a price to pay for progress. this is almost altruistic. sure, he's doing it for himself a little, but there's still thoughts of making the world a better place. she never thought about that, when she slid her knife into each of her family members. it was all selfish. it was all for her.
so... who is she to judge? she can't. not if this means she lives. if it means he lives.
[The breeze from the water of the docks flutters over Throné's face, cooling the heat of nerves there. She's in her clothes again, but she's barefoot. Beneath the left food, she can feel the dock, the air, the solidness below.
Beneath the right, she can feel the pressure of the ground and a strange electrifying sensation of life.
The right leg from toes to thigh is purple, bizarre flesh molded by the Core, twisted together with shards of the brace. But it feels different, she thinks. It doesn't feel like the lame leg she had.
She has never before moved faster than a walk in her life. Any attempt to run resulted in a fall, and so she had never bothered trying. Her chest is tight, full of apprehension. She's worried... it won't work. She's worried the leg is not only bad now, but hideous. But when she puts the foot solidly down, she realizes...
It was worth it. The price paid. It had worked.
Feeling the wind whip past as she picks up momentum, even stumbling at the start. Running full force down the docks through the night, feeling her lungs burn wonderfully from the exertion of knowing she's running. She's ripping away from the deformity, the restriction. She's free. She's so free she screams into the night.
In the breathless aftermath, she is tired, but alive. She can hear a voice through the lapping water saying,]
Throné? Throné...?
[When she opens her eyes, Viktor is looking back at her, concerned.]
there's just, like. the sensation of running for the first time. free. freedom, it's so intensely familiar to her, that when she opens her eyes, she's laughing, something quiet and helpless. it's almost wobbly. experiencing it next to him, in tandem with him, makes heat gather behind her eyes, just a little damp. it's funny how their experiences are so parallel.]
-- Viktor. [she says, breathlessly, and then:] Yes. Of course I am.
[she knows there was a price, that things probably went to shit not long after, but god if she can't quite bring herself to care.]
... You ran. [she says, bringing her hands up, resting them on either side of his face.]
[It is still a bit humiliating, showing what he had done to get to that point, showing how little his life meant to him because of how easy he was willing to throw it away on a test.
But if he had to share any, he was glad it was this. He knows Throné understands this much.
His own eyes burn gently when she touches his face, and he suddenly laughs too, matching hers. He reaches up, returning the gesture, putting her face in his palms and brushing the thumbs under her eyes. He laughs again, short.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
With Sky, there was nothing to hear or smell except the acrid ozone of primordial arcane magic and ash. But that's a different memory altogether.
With the lump in his throat again, he stares down at what he's done. Honestly, he doesn't know how to respond at all. He doesn't know how to answer the question with anything that is remotely sane. Or smart. With Father.]
...
[So he does not say anything at all.]
no subject
maybe it's just that the memory shifts. something black drips from the corner of father's mouth. and then faster than that - darkness billows from his eyes, his mouth, the wind whipping around the both of you. and then you're not in the sewer. not anymore - no, you're in an old church, the remains of it broken and rotting. you are facing that same man down, and this time, he's maniacal. he's bleeding from where you've managed to slice at him, and he's cackling.
you hear father scream your name, and you shove a dagger right into his gut, and --
and then, abruptly, without any warning at all, you are thrown out of this memory. and this time, throné is here as an adult with both her hands over her face. jesus.]
no subject
It's confusing, being so terrified, so full of fear, and then so full of disgust, and then heartache, confusion. All at once. A man that deserves more hate than maybe a heart can give, and yet,
and yet.
It's too soon for catharsis, or maybe none comes even comes at all after such a deed. He stumbles slightly as he's dumped back, full-body, but what feels like in his body. He tries to fix his ragged breathing, then startles at Throné. He reaches out immediately, steps forward, though hesitates with the gesture.]
Throné...
no subject
... and yet. and yet. there's this horrible, aching grief that she feels. a guilt. not regret, but just... the kind of thing you cling to, because it was the only family you ever had, and you destroyed it with your own two hands.
she drags her hands down her face and looks at him.]
... Parents are supposed to love you.
no subject
He finishes his movement forward, touching her lightly on the shoulder and arm at first, and then wrapping both arms around her shoulders. He hugs her tightly to himself, trying to squeeze out whatever reassurance he can.]
Throné... It's alright...
no subject
it's okay. she's alright. she's... worked through this, mostly, she's tried. people have talked her through it, as best they can. but this is years and years of something nasty and painful left to rot, and he's so kind to her like he always is, and she can't help it, she just kind of lets herself cling.
she thinks about asking if it was alright to call him dad, as he died on the ground of that church, and how temenos had frowned so hard it'd almost been audible.
she doesn't know what to think about it anymore, so she just stays where she is and breathes, comes down from the adrenaline.]
no subject
And he hopes that is true for her, that love, actual real love, gives her some kind of reprieve.]
It's me. I'm here. It's not real.
[His hold doesn't loosen from around her, not even to look her in the face.]
I'm sorry, Throné. I know that's very hard. I know that was hard.
no subject
and she doesn't want to let this go, either - the easy comfort viktor gives her, the kindness in his voice and the way he tells her that it was hard, and that it's okay to think that it was. the people here tell her this all the time. it's okay, you're okay, and you'll be okay. it's something she's never had before this.
after a couple of minutes, she's calmed down enough to speak, and she murmurs:]
... Thank you.
no subject
You don't have to thank me. You deserve it.
[He knows she probably won't believe him entirely, not with "all of the great atrocities I've done," but he isn't without his share of atrocities either. You can be a good person and still make mistakes.]
Don't look back. You have so much ahead of you now, more than ever.
no subject
I know. [a beat, and she shifts so she can kiss him on the side of the head, gentle and sweet. get loved and cherished back!!] I intend to take it.
[give me a memory back also binch]
no subject
Also hehe. He will lean down and accept this kiss even if it makes him extremely shy when she does it! HE'S THIRTY, BUT IS ACTING LIKE A LITTLE SCHOOL BOY GETTING A KISS FROM THE HOT TEACHER!!!]
Good.
[It's her turn, without fanfare or warning.
She's in a cave built into a work room. Sparse and earthy, infected by industry. Piping, work tables, tools, and a giant tubular device full of strange liquid and a creature, almost completely dead, inert, submerged into it.
Throne can see her reflection looking back at her through the pod's glass, but it's the reflection of a familiar man who has slept only a few hours between several days, a man who aches, whose lungs are tight, who is withering away and desperate for life.
Behind her, is a man she knows from her childhood she has run to when all other options had been expended, a man she knows can probably help her even though his methods are the purist form of cut-and-dry research, detached from ethics.
He gives her an option to accept, handing it out to her in a little vial full of purple liquid. Shimmer. A variant. She thinks Jayce would understand, having wanted to help him so badly.
There is a price to pay for progress. Will she pay it?]
no subject
but she doesn't get the chance to really react to it so much, because she's in a cave, watching a creature. the part of her that is her does not like that - it's horrible and she does not want it to die. she gets caught watching it struggle for a second with a moment of extreme sympathy, and then...
the man offers her a vial.
a price to pay. there always is. and there's something about it that feels familiar. the price to be free. she hesitates, but.
yeah. she pays it. she'll take whatever this is.]
no subject
It's time.
She is in a work room very different than the one in the cave. This one, on the surface, is painted in luxury, progress. Posh. Elevated. Rich. The way Piltover looks to those who can only glean the outside of it.
She puts the scalpel down. There is something unusual on her she has not seen on the body she knows she is in: a metal brace from thigh to ankle, stabilizing the leg. But some of the pieces are familiar from the time long ago when she looked over his body, the slivers of it twisted into the flesh of his leg, becoming one with him.
She has carved tiny runes in both the skin of the leg and the metal of the brace, the same runes that are on each side of the many pyramids of the Core hovering in front of her.
The vial of Shimmer is in a syringe gun on the work table. This will work, she thinks. She believes. This will work. This is how she unlocks the secrets of life and death. It isn't like she has anything to lose. Her life?
She was losing it anyway.
There is a price to pay for progress. To give up humanity, to change a nature, to bypass ethos. Rio's life was a sacrifice to this. Little Rio, her body being kept alive inside a vat, a mutation you were told that must survive.
Draw the blood. Touch the Core.
Will Throné pay the price?]
no subject
she thinks - there is a price to pay for progress. this is almost altruistic. sure, he's doing it for himself a little, but there's still thoughts of making the world a better place. she never thought about that, when she slid her knife into each of her family members. it was all selfish. it was all for her.
so... who is she to judge? she can't. not if this means she lives. if it means he lives.
she pays the price.]
no subject
Beneath the right, she can feel the pressure of the ground and a strange electrifying sensation of life.
The right leg from toes to thigh is purple, bizarre flesh molded by the Core, twisted together with shards of the brace. But it feels different, she thinks. It doesn't feel like the lame leg she had.
After a moment, she releases the crutch and let's it fall away from her.
She has never before moved faster than a walk in her life. Any attempt to run resulted in a fall, and so she had never bothered trying. Her chest is tight, full of apprehension. She's worried... it won't work. She's worried the leg is not only bad now, but hideous. But when she puts the foot solidly down, she realizes...
It was worth it. The price paid. It had worked.
Feeling the wind whip past as she picks up momentum, even stumbling at the start. Running full force down the docks through the night, feeling her lungs burn wonderfully from the exertion of knowing she's running. She's ripping away from the deformity, the restriction. She's free. She's so free she screams into the night.
In the breathless aftermath, she is tired, but alive. She can hear a voice through the lapping water saying,]
Throné? Throné...?
[When she opens her eyes, Viktor is looking back at her, concerned.]
Are you alright?
no subject
there's just, like. the sensation of running for the first time. free. freedom, it's so intensely familiar to her, that when she opens her eyes, she's laughing, something quiet and helpless. it's almost wobbly. experiencing it next to him, in tandem with him, makes heat gather behind her eyes, just a little damp. it's funny how their experiences are so parallel.]
-- Viktor. [she says, breathlessly, and then:] Yes. Of course I am.
[she knows there was a price, that things probably went to shit not long after, but god if she can't quite bring herself to care.]
... You ran. [she says, bringing her hands up, resting them on either side of his face.]
no subject
But if he had to share any, he was glad it was this. He knows Throné understands this much.
His own eyes burn gently when she touches his face, and he suddenly laughs too, matching hers. He reaches up, returning the gesture, putting her face in his palms and brushing the thumbs under her eyes. He laughs again, short.]
I did, yes.
no subject
I can only imagine how that felt. [she experienced it, but like. god.] ... I want that for you. Without the strings.
[by god if this man doesn't get to be healthy after game she's going to be pissed.]