[He is off. This feels wrong from the get-go - Silco always carried himself with a certainty even in the face of larger threats. Here, he's smaller, more aware of himself in a strange way. No, this feels different than a man simply led into bittersweet reminiscence. There's something restless, here, and Vergilius actually moves his head forward to cast his gaze down the hallway, as if expecting some shadow to be tacked onto the wall.]
....Mm.
[And now, he's looking back at the man, eyebrows twisting down with a confused frown.]
It may be stupid, yes. [A beat.] What's wrong, Silco?
[ He does not know fear anymore β he does not fear anything β but he does not dare utter something that could be used against him right now where he thinks there could be a...remnant of the demon left. He'd encompassed his room, he'd swallowed all the light, was it so foolish to think that he would leave something behind, to make sure he held to the letter of a spoken-contract?
He straightened and looked him in the eye. A tip of his head, a twitch of his lips. Fear could only do so much to stifle Silco. ]
[Maybe he didn't see an actual shadow, but looks like he wasn't far off on his guess. Shadows may listen. Whatever happened with Sebastian somehow pierced to his core. He has no idea what the butler is, but...]
[This is a man who was pushed to a corner if he ever saw one.]
[He sighs as if reluctant, but he is moving back at the same time, to give the man space to move.]
....Fine. No shadows here.
[When he does enter, he will find....a rather unimpressive room. Bluntly normal, with disheveled sheets, scattered belongings. Nothing personal here. A room lived in, but it isn't alive.]
You can take a seat.
[He gestures to the bed. He has a chair, but its as plain as it gets. Probably more comfortable for that first choice.]
[ It's... about as spartan as Silco's is, really. Minus the drama of the medications and drugs, his was no more personable than Silco's is. Though, he's been here longer, hasn't he?
Once the door is closed, he relaxed slightly, that cantankerous old arrogance suffusing back into him, like the spark of paranoia can be buried back underneath. It's more vulnerable than he'd like. He won't admit it, and certainly won't voice how truly powerless he is; the stark reminder doing more to harden it into his soul, when a world before, he'd thought he could do anything. He could. Now... well.
He sat. Though...
His eyes focused on him for a long moment. Maybe because he's thinking about how to start the conversation again; or maybe...
[He waits, patiently, for Silco to begin. He himself leans against the wall, arms folded, waiting. His gaze holds steady, red as anything.]
[That line brings no reaction. No horror, no shock, no disgust.]
And why would you do something like that?
[His tone is almost bordering on casual - after all, he himself just confessed to killing many before. Fathers, mothers, parents. All have ended by his hand.]
[One father by Silco's hand pales to it, by quantity alone.]
[ Well, he didn't expect that to shock him, frankly. Though he seemed to feel guilt for his own murders, he's suspected that the man understood that this was the way of things. That murders happened. In the undercity, after all, it was just. It was normal. Routine.
Nothing. ]
Why? [ There it was. He looked at him, that unblinking eye still boring into him.]
I planned it. I spent years orchestrating it so I could stab him with the knife I stole from him the day he gave me this. [ He tapped it, two fingers to the scar on his face, below the eye. ]
There's nothing more dangerous than someone who knows you best, after all. It's a lesson I had to learn, and one I was happy to teach in return.
[ As if the thought of Silco being close to anyone was likely. ]
I see. The sordid path of revenge. An eye for an eye.
[So, it seems Silco had a man to blame, and hunted that man to sate sweet vengeance. It makes sense. Silco was that type of man - he can see him tending to his grudges like pets, or plants in a garden. He wouldn't let them simply slide by.]
[He tilts his head, staring into that wide, unblinking eye.
Why did he give you that in the first place?
[What was the sin that catalyzed this whole chain reaction to occur?]
[ That bitter little laugh again. A chuff of it. Why? When he'd been younger, when it was fresh and new, he'd asked that over and over again. Why had it happened? Why had he been the one to bear the stains of their guilt? Why did he also have to die? Why had he finally had to let go of everything he was, to leave it to drift to the bottom of the river? Why had he been discarded like yesterday's refuse?
It had never been fair. Wasn't that what their lots in life were?]
Oh, that's where it gets interesting.
We got her parents killed. [ Were his hands stained with blood? Or was he just drowning in it? ]
My plan, of course. My fault.
[ So he was to blame, clearly. He had never blamed himself in full -- but he'd never had the opportunity to. Guilt couldn't roost where betrayal had dug a bigger hole for hatred and fury to be settle. ] Supposedly.
Come now, Vergilius. Your kids were in an orphanage, weren't they? Is it a stretch to think that someone would swoop in and take responsibility, if they felt enough guilt to kill someone they'd called brother?
[ Tried to kill, anyway. ]
I knew it had been a possibility. I was foolish, perhaps, thinking that a pack of Trenchers would be little more than an annoyance to swat down. [ A tip of his head. ]
So you can feel a spot of regret in that blackened coal heart of yours. Who knew.
[Not even said judgmentally, but almost matter-of-factly. Here is Silco. Even at the end of everything, he's as human as the rest of them. For better and for worse.]
[A little sigh, a shift of his head causing his bangs to fall in front of those unnatural gem-like eyes of his.]
And how did she come to you, after your bloody deed was done? Did you swoop in and take responsibility?
[ His put upon sigh rattles through a smoker's lungs. ]
A shame, isn't it? That I'm not nearly as reprehensible as one may think? Everything I've done has been for either that dream, or Jinx.
[ But what would happen if he had to choose? ]
Did you know, his entire pack of children came to save him? All but her. They had left her behind, because she was... [ Well... ] Her namesake.
They're dead. [ He held up a finger. ] Before you blame me, understand, I had no interest in the children. I took him only.
[ But Zaunites were built different. ]
I found her afterward. Crying by his body. She'd blown them up. All of them except her sister, who tossed her aside for trying to do what she thought would help.
[ There's that bitter little laugh again. Like father, like daughter. In every way possible. ]
[Jinx, he says. Like her namesake, he says. It seems children are named after what they are, what they will be. A gem of a boy becomes a hardened jewel. A girl named after disaster provides as such.]
[He takes it in, doesn't answer for a good long moment.]
Blown them up....how? What was she trying to do, Silco, that ended in such tragedy?
[He opens his mouth, closes his mouth. Those vivid eyes cloud over a little as he casts it down at the floor. Why didn't he tell them? It's a good question, and one that he brushed aside, again and again.]
[He grimaces.]
...I suppose...I was too happy with that pretend scenario. Where I was simply a caretaker. I didn't...want to be hated. As much I knew I deserved to be.
[ He leaned back slightly, an arm behind him to keep him up. He looked him up and down with that unwavering, eerie gaze of his own.
He's probably the wrong person to admit to being hated to. Silco has accepted being hated, and hating in turn. It's the way of things. It's the only way to live, to survive. Is to not care about what others think. Not worry about who hates you because of a few acts. ]
Why do you think you deserve it? Because you're a killer?
...I sought a sort of redemption in them, perhaps. A hope for the future. My garden to tend in a world that deserved to be razed.
[Again, those same thoughts come forth, unbidden, like a beating heart:]
[Since when did I begin to experience that feeling called guilt? Since when did I lose the place where I could let my head down? No longer do I have the strength to move. Only now do I realize that this life of playing house may have been my final struggle to protect my soul, to stop the guilt from consuming me. Because I know that the place I'm bound for will be too much for me.]
[He shakes his head, a hand moving up to brush through some of his bangs, back over his head.]
I hate that City. But in turn my sins keep the blood flowing that keeps it alive. In the end, I have perpetuated...too much to be forgiven.
Hm. [ He watches him brush his bangs back, leaving him under that constant, unwavering gaze. ]
I always thought that raising a child in a place so cruel was an act of defiance. To make something despite the filth that trickles down to consume everything, swallow us in all of its misery.
[ It's funny, how similar their stories are, their cities. Certainly, Vergilius has killed more than him directly, but he does not doubt that shimmer and his quest for full control of the undercity was a path of blood as well. Worthwhile blood, blood spilled for the cause, but blood nonetheless. Was it because there was a reason for what he did, that he did not feel guilt? Had he been a different man β the man he'd been back then β would he feel that same guilt settling like a too-heavy blanket?
Could he find a way to ease it? What good was guilt, if it served no purpose? What good did it serve? What point did it have? ]
Do you need to be? [ He asked, finally, a long moment of consideration, watching him, thinking. Like those gears turning in his head. ] If you had resisted, or been a different person, would the City be different?
Or would it have found a crueler man than you to fill its place?
[But that last part. Now there's a thought. He glances up at that, a little surprised. Because yes, there could always be someone to take his place. Someone with a pitch-black heart who was unaware of the sea of blood.]
[Does he need to be forgiven? No, not especially. But it is about his own world, his own paradoxically selfish soul. He is the perpetrator of hell for himself and everyone around him.]
[He scoffs.]
You know, I'm one of the cruelest there is. A monster who feels remorse is worse, you know.
[ He doesn't disagree. How could he, when he knew what kind of a monster came from someone who felt remorse for what they did? Who knew it was wrong, but did it anyway?
But was it wrong? That's what he wanted to know. Was it wrong to kill? Did he feel remorse because he felt that killing was wrong β or because the guilt made it easier? What would he be without that guilt? Would he be a monster, or just a man? He wished he could turn him inside out, and see what was inside, what made him like this. ]
Do you think that bothers me? [ Ah, but perhaps... ] How does a man like you end up in this predicament?
It's not about you, Silco. I could care less if it did.
[He says, both chiding and said out of a little exhaustion. This man does want to pull him apart. He has to keep reminding himself of that, lest he only follow his own emotions to feel like they're on the same level.]
[This man turned him into a vampire. He has to pinch himself with that fact time and time again.]
...I can't give you some nice neat answer. And even if I could, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction.
[ Despite being so spooked in the hallway, Silco only stared at him in that odd way he did, silent for a long moment, his two-toned gaze evaluating. Like he was reading the situation, or trying to read something out of him.
He does want to pull him apart. That hasn't changed. If anything, knowing more just makes him more curious, more driven to get his bony fingers beneath his skin and tug him open. Like he's looking to crack him open to find the meat inside to pull it out and reshape him.
All he had to do was let him.]
So? Don't give me the neat answer. If I were interested in tidy stories, would I tell you mine, raw wound as it is?
[ Devoid of context though it was, but still, he pushed, not swayed by being brushed off. Sorry, Vergilius, he has the scent of you now.]
[sometimes the specifics of your backstory are still obscure sorry silco the story is cucking you]
[But Silco's insistence brushes over him roughly, and his lip pulls back. A mark of aggrievance. He will resist him, no matter what. He has to.]
[This man can't control him, shouldn't control him, even though...he fails more often than not.]
All I will say is that I made a promise to an old friend a long time ago, when these eyes weren't red. A promise to make a paradise. Perhaps that's the reason. I won't share any more to sate your appetite. But to answer your question directly...I don't know when this guilt started.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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....Mm.
[And now, he's looking back at the man, eyebrows twisting down with a confused frown.]
It may be stupid, yes. [A beat.] What's wrong, Silco?
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Perhaps this was stupid. (It was.) Finally: ]
I don't trust that the shadows are not listening.
[ He does not know fear anymore β he does not fear anything β but he does not dare utter something that could be used against him right now where he thinks there could be a...remnant of the demon left. He'd encompassed his room, he'd swallowed all the light, was it so foolish to think that he would leave something behind, to make sure he held to the letter of a spoken-contract?
He straightened and looked him in the eye. A tip of his head, a twitch of his lips. Fear could only do so much to stifle Silco. ]
Are you going to let me in, or not?
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[Maybe he didn't see an actual shadow, but looks like he wasn't far off on his guess. Shadows may listen. Whatever happened with Sebastian somehow pierced to his core. He has no idea what the butler is, but...]
[This is a man who was pushed to a corner if he ever saw one.]
[He sighs as if reluctant, but he is moving back at the same time, to give the man space to move.]
....Fine. No shadows here.
[When he does enter, he will find....a rather unimpressive room. Bluntly normal, with disheveled sheets, scattered belongings. Nothing personal here. A room lived in, but it isn't alive.]
You can take a seat.
[He gestures to the bed. He has a chair, but its as plain as it gets. Probably more comfortable for that first choice.]
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Once the door is closed, he relaxed slightly, that cantankerous old arrogance suffusing back into him, like the spark of paranoia can be buried back underneath. It's more vulnerable than he'd like. He won't admit it, and certainly won't voice how truly powerless he is; the stark reminder doing more to harden it into his soul, when a world before, he'd thought he could do anything. He could. Now... well.
He sat. Though...
His eyes focused on him for a long moment. Maybe because he's thinking about how to start the conversation again; or maybe...
Finally: ]
I killed him, you know. Her father.
[ The opening line to that horrible tale. ]
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[That line brings no reaction. No horror, no shock, no disgust.]
And why would you do something like that?
[His tone is almost bordering on casual - after all, he himself just confessed to killing many before. Fathers, mothers, parents. All have ended by his hand.]
[One father by Silco's hand pales to it, by quantity alone.]
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Nothing. ]
Why? [ There it was. He looked at him, that unblinking eye still boring into him.]
I planned it. I spent years orchestrating it so I could stab him with the knife I stole from him the day he gave me this. [ He tapped it, two fingers to the scar on his face, below the eye. ]
There's nothing more dangerous than someone who knows you best, after all. It's a lesson I had to learn, and one I was happy to teach in return.
[ As if the thought of Silco being close to anyone was likely. ]
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[So, it seems Silco had a man to blame, and hunted that man to sate sweet vengeance. It makes sense. Silco was that type of man - he can see him tending to his grudges like pets, or plants in a garden. He wouldn't let them simply slide by.]
[He tilts his head, staring into that wide, unblinking eye.
Why did he give you that in the first place?
[What was the sin that catalyzed this whole chain reaction to occur?]
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It had never been fair. Wasn't that what their lots in life were?]
Oh, that's where it gets interesting.
We got her parents killed. [ Were his hands stained with blood? Or was he just drowning in it? ]
My plan, of course. My fault.
[ So he was to blame, clearly. He had never blamed himself in full -- but he'd never had the opportunity to. Guilt couldn't roost where betrayal had dug a bigger hole for hatred and fury to be settle. ] Supposedly.
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[Confused, he dips his head a little, eyebrows furrowing.]
I guess your plan didn't plan for that. Did it?
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[ Tried to kill, anyway. ]
I knew it had been a possibility. I was foolish, perhaps, thinking that a pack of Trenchers would be little more than an annoyance to swat down. [ A tip of his head. ]
A mistake I intended not to repeat.
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[Not even said judgmentally, but almost matter-of-factly. Here is Silco. Even at the end of everything, he's as human as the rest of them. For better and for worse.]
[A little sigh, a shift of his head causing his bangs to fall in front of those unnatural gem-like eyes of his.]
And how did she come to you, after your bloody deed was done? Did you swoop in and take responsibility?
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A shame, isn't it? That I'm not nearly as reprehensible as one may think? Everything I've done has been for either that dream, or Jinx.
[ But what would happen if he had to choose? ]
Did you know, his entire pack of children came to save him? All but her. They had left her behind, because she was... [ Well... ] Her namesake.
They're dead. [ He held up a finger. ] Before you blame me, understand, I had no interest in the children. I took him only.
[ But Zaunites were built different. ]
I found her afterward. Crying by his body. She'd blown them up. All of them except her sister, who tossed her aside for trying to do what she thought would help.
[ There's that bitter little laugh again. Like father, like daughter. In every way possible. ]
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[Jinx, he says. Like her namesake, he says. It seems children are named after what they are, what they will be. A gem of a boy becomes a hardened jewel. A girl named after disaster provides as such.]
[He takes it in, doesn't answer for a good long moment.]
Blown them up....how? What was she trying to do, Silco, that ended in such tragedy?
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[ He can't help it, there's pride in his voice. Say what you will About Silco's abysmal parenting skills, but he was proud of his daughter. ]
She torched my entire factory with it.
She was always brilliant, even as a child.
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[Trying to save them all with the very thing that took away their lives.]
[He can't even begin to imagine what a child like that would feel. And now, that brings him to the question:]
Did you tell her...what you did?
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[ It was Silco, after all. It would never have been fair. But also... vander is frankly huge. So. Can anyone blame him?]
Yes, of course. She was well aware of who I was and what I had done, but it didn't stop her from reaching out to me.
[ A beat. ]
It's why I'm surprised that you didn't tell your kids what you did.
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[He opens his mouth, closes his mouth. Those vivid eyes cloud over a little as he casts it down at the floor. Why didn't he tell them? It's a good question, and one that he brushed aside, again and again.]
[He grimaces.]
...I suppose...I was too happy with that pretend scenario. Where I was simply a caretaker. I didn't...want to be hated. As much I knew I deserved to be.
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[ He leaned back slightly, an arm behind him to keep him up. He looked him up and down with that unwavering, eerie gaze of his own.
He's probably the wrong person to admit to being hated to. Silco has accepted being hated, and hating in turn. It's the way of things. It's the only way to live, to survive. Is to not care about what others think. Not worry about who hates you because of a few acts. ]
Why do you think you deserve it? Because you're a killer?
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[Again, those same thoughts come forth, unbidden, like a beating heart:]
[Since when did I begin to experience that feeling called guilt?
Since when did I lose the place where I could let my head down? No longer do I have the strength to move. Only now do I realize that this life of playing house may have been my final struggle to protect my soul, to stop the guilt from consuming me.
Because I know that the place I'm bound for will be too much for me.]
[He shakes his head, a hand moving up to brush through some of his bangs, back over his head.]
I hate that City. But in turn my sins keep the blood flowing that keeps it alive. In the end, I have perpetuated...too much to be forgiven.
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I always thought that raising a child in a place so cruel was an act of defiance. To make something despite the filth that trickles down to consume everything, swallow us in all of its misery.
[ It's funny, how similar their stories are, their cities. Certainly, Vergilius has killed more than him directly, but he does not doubt that shimmer and his quest for full control of the undercity was a path of blood as well. Worthwhile blood, blood spilled for the cause, but blood nonetheless. Was it because there was a reason for what he did, that he did not feel guilt? Had he been a different man β the man he'd been back then β would he feel that same guilt settling like a too-heavy blanket?
Could he find a way to ease it? What good was guilt, if it served no purpose? What good did it serve? What point did it have? ]
Do you need to be? [ He asked, finally, a long moment of consideration, watching him, thinking. Like those gears turning in his head. ] If you had resisted, or been a different person, would the City be different?
Or would it have found a crueler man than you to fill its place?
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[But that last part. Now there's a thought. He glances up at that, a little surprised. Because yes, there could always be someone to take his place. Someone with a pitch-black heart who was unaware of the sea of blood.]
[Does he need to be forgiven? No, not especially. But it is about his own world, his own paradoxically selfish soul. He is the perpetrator of hell for himself and everyone around him.]
[He scoffs.]
You know, I'm one of the cruelest there is. A monster who feels remorse is worse, you know.
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[ He doesn't disagree. How could he, when he knew what kind of a monster came from someone who felt remorse for what they did? Who knew it was wrong, but did it anyway?
But was it wrong? That's what he wanted to know. Was it wrong to kill? Did he feel remorse because he felt that killing was wrong β or because the guilt made it easier? What would he be without that guilt? Would he be a monster, or just a man? He wished he could turn him inside out, and see what was inside, what made him like this. ]
Do you think that bothers me? [ Ah, but perhaps... ] How does a man like you end up in this predicament?
[ He can't imagine anyone forcing his hand. ]
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[He says, both chiding and said out of a little exhaustion. This man does want to pull him apart. He has to keep reminding himself of that, lest he only follow his own emotions to feel like they're on the same level.]
[This man turned him into a vampire. He has to pinch himself with that fact time and time again.]
...I can't give you some nice neat answer. And even if I could, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction.
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He does want to pull him apart. That hasn't changed. If anything, knowing more just makes him more curious, more driven to get his bony fingers beneath his skin and tug him open. Like he's looking to crack him open to find the meat inside to pull it out and reshape him.
All he had to do was let him.]
So? Don't give me the neat answer. If I were interested in tidy stories, would I tell you mine, raw wound as it is?
[ Devoid of context though it was, but still, he pushed, not swayed by being brushed off. Sorry, Vergilius, he has the scent of you now.]
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[
sometimes the specifics of your backstory are still obscure sorry silco the story is cucking you][But Silco's insistence brushes over him roughly, and his lip pulls back. A mark of aggrievance. He will resist him, no matter what. He has to.]
[This man can't control him, shouldn't control him, even though...he fails more often than not.]
All I will say is that I made a promise to an old friend a long time ago, when these eyes weren't red. A promise to make a paradise. Perhaps that's the reason. I won't share any more to sate your appetite. But to answer your question directly...I don't know when this guilt started.
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normal...........................
so Normal
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π
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