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.
[ It's not really a laugh. It's that same bitter little thing, seeing that way their two pieces fit together, two stories that were both so different, and yet time and time again they kept finding places where they matched up. Synced.
Itβs what keeps drawing him in, to find those odd spaces where two different puzzles could be linked together, if they compared the way they would line up. Like a story that matched up just enough would make it all that much easier to peel understanding out of him.]
Promises like that cut as much as they build, don't they? [ Again, that unblinking gaze meets his. So his eyes weren't always that color?
What a curious thing. What a curious man he was. ]
And yet. Paradise, a new nation, it doesn't matter what it is, does it? There is always something that seems to get in the way. No matter what we promise.
[ That's what it took, though, wasn't it? It wasn't kindness, camaraderie, or even community building that did it. Nothing but that base violence, a shock to the system violent enough that there would be no coming back. Change did not happen slowly, or gradually. He knew that better than anyone.
He met his eyes right back, that old, unblinking stare β that pit of an eye looks like pooling toxins in dark water. ]
Freedom, a nation of our own. Maybe not paradise, but... [ A small shrug of one shoulder. ] As close as a bunch of Trenchers could get.
Of course you haven't. That wouldn't be like you if you did.
[Because as much as he knows Silco, the man is determined to a fault. A creature of skin and bones ready to bite the throats of anyone who stood in his way. Only great tragedy could create a thing like that. A man like that.]
[His eye is inhuman. Vergilius doesn't say his own eyes are even more so, literally.]
He doesn't look away at the question itself, but they look his face over, darting as if he's looking for a spot of weakness, or maybe just a way in which he falters, even slightly. He doesn't find it, so he meets his eyes again. ]
If I thought it necessary, of course. [ He didn't think it would be. ] Wouldn't you?
I would. But only when I have succeeded. If you die before anything has been accomplished...
[A pause. The red moves downwards, but there's a bite of anger to it. No, he would rage. He would do so until he could confirm that paradise, as horrible as it may be.]
[ Verg, you literally can't say stuff like that to him. what the heck. ]
[ He was fighting too, but more than that, he understood. A fight like this required a monster, a beast willing to fight tooth claw and nail to make it there. No, there were no easy victories to be found, or compromises to be made. If it could be achieved, it would be paid for in blood. If blood was needed to flood the streets, power the engines, or even drown those that refused to make it happen?
Then blood it would take. A twitch of his lips. He respects him for that. ]
There wouldn't be one.
Give up everything for nothing? It's a poor deal, isn't it? You don't seem the type to make poor ones.
[See, this is the pitfall. Silco sees this, and understands. Explicitly, implicitly.]
[Silco can be a mirror sometimes, and it scares him, how well the reflection fits. The love for a child, the willingness to commit atrocity after atrocity without end.]
[He sighs, and it sounds like it belongs to someone who has lived through a thousand lifetimes. In a sense, maybe he has.]
So you see. You have to keep...following the flow. To its bitter end. Without rest. Without...obstacle. No matter whose death unfolds before me...I have resolved to walk down this path.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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[ It's not really a laugh. It's that same bitter little thing, seeing that way their two pieces fit together, two stories that were both so different, and yet time and time again they kept finding places where they matched up. Synced.
Itβs what keeps drawing him in, to find those odd spaces where two different puzzles could be linked together, if they compared the way they would line up. Like a story that matched up just enough would make it all that much easier to peel understanding out of him.]
Promises like that cut as much as they build, don't they? [ Again, that unblinking gaze meets his. So his eyes weren't always that color?
What a curious thing. What a curious man he was. ]
And yet. Paradise, a new nation, it doesn't matter what it is, does it? There is always something that seems to get in the way. No matter what we promise.
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[Its like fighting against the tide. Sink or swim. And even swimming can take you too far.]
[To achieve the paradise he wanted, he would have to be the biggest monster of them all.]
[He meets his gaze, something a little harder in them now.]
...What did you promise, Silco?
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He met his eyes right back, that old, unblinking stare β that pit of an eye looks like pooling toxins in dark water. ]
Freedom, a nation of our own. Maybe not paradise, but... [ A small shrug of one shoulder. ] As close as a bunch of Trenchers could get.
[ It would have been enough. Even just that. ]
I still haven't given up on it.
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[Because as much as he knows Silco, the man is determined to a fault. A creature of skin and bones ready to bite the throats of anyone who stood in his way. Only great tragedy could create a thing like that. A man like that.]
[His eye is inhuman. Vergilius doesn't say his own eyes are even more so, literally.]
...Would you die for your dream?
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[ He's not wrong, at least.
He doesn't look away at the question itself, but they look his face over, darting as if he's looking for a spot of weakness, or maybe just a way in which he falters, even slightly. He doesn't find it, so he meets his eyes again. ]
If I thought it necessary, of course. [ He didn't think it would be. ] Wouldn't you?
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[A pause. The red moves downwards, but there's a bite of anger to it. No, he would rage. He would do so until he could confirm that paradise, as horrible as it may be.]
Then what would be the point?
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[ He was fighting too, but more than that, he understood. A fight like this required a monster, a beast willing to fight tooth claw and nail to make it there. No, there were no easy victories to be found, or compromises to be made. If it could be achieved, it would be paid for in blood. If blood was needed to flood the streets, power the engines, or even drown those that refused to make it happen?
Then blood it would take. A twitch of his lips. He respects him for that. ]
There wouldn't be one.
Give up everything for nothing? It's a poor deal, isn't it? You don't seem the type to make poor ones.
No, it would be an insult.
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[Silco can be a mirror sometimes, and it scares him, how well the reflection fits. The love for a child, the willingness to commit atrocity after atrocity without end.]
[He sighs, and it sounds like it belongs to someone who has lived through a thousand lifetimes. In a sense, maybe he has.]
So you see. You have to keep...following the flow. To its bitter end. Without rest. Without...obstacle. No matter whose death unfolds before me...I have resolved to walk down this path.
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normal...........................
so Normal
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π
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